


The Neglected Garden

by MissGillette



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Activist Charles Xavier, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Bottom Charles, Canon Jewish Character, Erik has Issues, Fluff and Angst, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Top Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 57,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissGillette/pseuds/MissGillette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neighborhood legends, especially those imagined by children, are often more farce than truth. Charles moves to a rural village where the legend of a boogyman who lurks in the woods is far from fiction. Coming face-to-face with him, Charles ushers the tall tale into the light. But the boogyman isn't the only one who could use a helping hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abandoned House

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Sorry to my RT fans who got excited when they saw I posted a new fic. PSYCH, it's X-men. This is a good excuse to jump head first into a new fandom, though. Right?
> 
> Cover art credit [avictoriangirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)

 

The rusting, blue moving van crammed full of antique furniture and boxes bounces Charles around as it coasts down a country road. With a box of breakables held safely in his lap, the young mutant has watched five-lane highways give way to state routes and state routes give to corn and soybean fields. He can’t stare ahead at the road for too long, the endless sea of corn stalks drawing his eye into a dizzying singularity. Charles grumbles at another vigorous shake of the van that sends tingles up his numb legs, especially where pins and a screw or two lie imbedded in his bones. His cane rattles on the floorboards with every pothole.

Raven grunts, pushing herself forward to throw an arm over the bench of Charles’ seat. “How are your legs feeling? Should we stop?”

Hank nods from the driver’s seat. “We’re making great time. Heck, we’ll probably beat the movers to the house. Assuming they don’t get lost…”

Raven snorts and rolls her eyes. She huddles closer behind Charles and rests her chin on the backrest. “Don’t jinx it, **we** might still get lost.”

Charles ignores Raven’s teasing and sighs. “How much longer, Hank?”

“About an hour,” he replies confidently.

“No point in stopping, then, when we’re so close.” Charles squeezes the bump of his knee with the hand not cradling the box in his lap. “I’ll walk a bit when we get there.”

The van quiets again after that, and Charles thumps his head against the plastic siding. Raven’s mind vibrates like a busy beehive behind him, thoughts lifting off and touching down seamlessly. Charles swats a hand by his head to drive off the low hum, and Raven reclines back to her seat with a sigh. Coddling hadn’t soothed the deep, stomach-turning ache in his hips and legs two years ago, and it won’t vanish his cane from his feet now. Charles turns his forehead into the van’s siding, shuts his eyes, and exhales slowly through his mouth. It’s best not to waste energy fighting her all over again, not when they’ve done so well since they’d left the city.

A sharp, slow turn of the van sends Charles’ stomach tumbling and shocks him awake. He’d only closed his eyes for a moment, but the scenery has changed much around them. Beside him, Hank has two hands fisted tightly on the wheel as he navigates a blind curve in the road. They’ve left the cornfields behind, Charles realizes, and the grade of the road drops steeply after the turn that had awoken him. Raven continues to doze in the backseats, unaware of the twisting, winding road. Charles braces his feet as best he can on the floorboard, just to stop himself from sliding all over the place. It’s a tense moment on the road before they drop down from the rolling hills and bottom out in a valley. More farmland surrounds them, but shocks of red tomatoes and purple lavender promise something other than endless, golden husks. The heavy scent of the lavender seeps into every gap of the van to fill their noses. Hank cracks his window with a sneeze.

“It’s, uh...” Hank pauses, as if to sneeze again, but the moment passes. “It’s beautiful down here.”

Charles hums while craning his neck to see above the climbing tomato vines. A house deep in the field, paint fading and lopsided, peeks between the rows of plants. A few children explode from the front door, sprint off the porch, and disappear into the tall growth. Charles smiles at their antics and cracks his window to feel the valley air whip at his face. His eyes dart from purple row to purple row of lavender as they drive past. Where the lavender field ends and another tomato field begins, Hank slows the van to a squeaking stop on the shoulder of the narrow road. The air stills in the cabin and becomes stuffy almost immediately.

Charles slips his fingers into the handle of his door and pops it open. Careful of his box, he slides closer to the edge, leaving the package in his place, and slips from the van. He clutches at the armrest built into the door until he can swipe his cane from the floorboard. Sweat already dews on his upper lip and the creases of his nostrils under the summer sun, despite the still early hour. Hank and Raven disembark with casual movements, although Charles feels their worry whine at him like a faithful pup. Charles squares his shoulders and strides as confidently as he can from the passenger side of the van. He follows Hank and Raven across the street to a gravel path leading through some trees.

“Old growth,” Hank comments with a hand on a towering trunk. “You don’t get this in the city.” 

“You won’t get this peace and quiet on a telepathic level in the city, either,” Charles adds as he hobbles past Hank. “That’s probably what I’m looking forward to the most.” 

Hank doesn’t offer a rebuttal, but Charles also doesn’t linger to give him the option. He’s lost sight of Raven as she’d powered up the slight incline the gravel path follows. Charles ignores the sweat on his forehead and strides forward. Hank remains a respectable distance behind him, but worry still flies off him like mist from a comet. Without so many other voices to block, though, Charles muffles Hank’s worry down to a bare whisper and tunes him out. It’s easier, now that he’s not crammed into a van with both of them. 

Through the tunnel of trees, Charles finally mounts the top of the small hill leading to their property. From here, the land flattens and opens into a clearing, with the new house at the back of the grassy field. The house is new in the sense that it’s new to them. Blessedly, it’s only a single story, and Charles’ aching legs eagerly thank him.  Even from this distance, Charles spots places along the wrap-around porch that desperately need a repainting. He already loves said porch, though, and smiles softly at all the sliding doors that lead out onto it. He wonders if every bedroom and communal area has access to the porch. He’d love a closer look. Charles kicks a foot at the knee-high grass, though, and lifts an eyebrow at Hank when he comes to a stop beside him. 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll have someone take care of this.” 

Chuckling softly, Charles shrugs and says, “We’ll have to be careful in the long grass until then. Hopefully, any snakes or creatures living in the growth will steer clear of us.” 

Hank nods and trudges on ahead to create a makeshift path for Charles. He barely takes a step into the thick grass, though, before tripping to his knees. As Hank stumbles, the quiet jingle of tiny bells tickles Charles’ ears. With his cane, Charles swipes through the area where Hank had stood, and his face lifts in surprise when the bottom of the cane catches on something. Charles bends at the waist, fingers straining to touch something glinting in the light. His fingers snag a metal thread, reminding Charles of a harp string, hiding at ankle height in the grass. When he tugs on it, more bells jingle in the field. The line snaps back into place when Charles releases it, and he’s quick to wipe his hand on his shirt while eyeing every shadow nearby. His mind skitters along the tree line, but he finds nothing. 

“Must be something the previous owners had around the house. Superstitious much?” Hank jokes as he climbs to his feet with a hot flush reddening his face. “Watch your step.” 

Charles tests the patch in front of him every few steps with his cane. He only steps forward when his cane hits solid earth beneath the trampled grass. Raven had made a path that circles around and twists on itself at times, and Charles silently thanks Hank for taking the straight and narrow to the house. Raven somehow managed to avoid the metal line that had caught Hank. They break through the grass and step into a trimmed section that encircles the house, a foot out from the painted porch. Hank misses it this time, but Charles steps gingerly over another metal line hiding where long grass gives way to the cut area. Charles turns his eye to the trees again, but the sun beaming down on him forces him to seek the shade of the porch. Sweating even harder after the journey here, Charles limps to a break in the porch and lowers himself onto its stone stairs. Hank remains where they’d broken out, staring up at the house and adjusting his glasses. 

“The house looks good, all the windows are boarded up, so none of them should be busted. Hopefully when we get inside, the utilities will already be on. I have the number for the gas and electric company, if not.” 

Charles nods in the shade with both hands clasped over the handle of his cane. “Thank you, Hank. Good thinking.” 

Hank flushes in the sun and busies himself with staring at the trimmed grass. “I wonder why this area is already cut. You think animals did this? I don’t”—Hank cranes his neck and kicks a shoe into the earth—”see any droppings, or anything…” 

Charles squints at the grass squashed by his feet, pouring over the straight cut of the blades and the lack of tire marks or footprints. Folding in on himself, Charles stretches his palm out in a rudimentary measurement. Measuring adds credence to his earlier estimate of how far out the cut area extends from the house. Charles forces himself back to his feet and follows the trimmed path, inspecting the consistency of the area. Charles judges just with his eye that the foot clearing continues without much change all the way around the house, perhaps gaining or losing an inch in some places. That could be achieved by a mower or trimmer. With stiffness and difficulty, Charles kneels down and plucks a blade of grass by his feet. The cut is sharp to the touch and perfect to the naked eye. No, Charles doesn’t believe a machine or animals did this. 

“Not sure. It’s pretty evenly—” 

“Found the front door!” Raven’s voice rings from another side of the house. “Who has the keys?!” 

Hank pats himself down and smacks his palm into said house keys hiding in his front pocket. He shoots Charles an apologetic look before taking off at a brisk pace to meet up with Raven. Charles stands back up and watches him go, grass blade twisted around a finger. A breeze barrels through the clearing and whips Charles’ long hair about his face. With nothing to stop or slow the wind, it careens into the other side of the clearing and startles the trees into a frenzy. Charles smiles privately in the clearing, eyes roaming over the tree line. He catches sight of something low to the ground, darker than the surrounding shadow. 

The wind picks up for a second round, and everything in the forest rolls with the wind. Except the dark patch. Charles holds his hair back from his eyes and squints hard against the wind and sunlight. Trees and bushes undulate with the wind, but something beside them holds fast. Charles can’t tell if it’s perhaps a rock or tree stump, thanks to the position of the sun. The longer he stares, though, the more he’s sure something stares back at him. Besides Hank and Raven buzzing on the other side of the house, though, no other mind calls out to him. Licking his lips, Charles readies his voice to cry out, but the lurking shadow jerks and disappears into the thicket. His knuckles are white where he grips the cane in a sweaty, shaking fist. 

“Charles, we’re going inside!” Raven calls to him. 

The wind dies down, and Charles’ hair sticks to his forehead and the back of his neck. A chill stubbornly remains over him, though, as he stares unblinking at the spot _something_ had been. The hand not grasping his cane for dear life squeezes the tight muscle in his thigh, almost pinching himself just to feel something. He’s sure though, something had watched him from the tree line. But there isn’t a whisper of an unfamiliar mind anywhere near the house. Charles distantly hears Raven call for him again, and he leaves to find them. Until he circles to the other side of the house, though, he adamantly refuses to turn his back on the trees. Raven can’t tease him about his paranoia if she’s already inside.

She’s not inside, when Charles finally makes the last turn to where the front door is. Instead, Raven has a foot planted on one of the boards covering a window and pries at it with her bare hands, trying to rip it off. Charles stifles a snort and climbs the few steps onto the porch, entering the house without a word to Raven. If she can wrestle a board off without the help of a hammer, more power to her. The darkly stained hardwood floor draws Charles’ eye, and for a moment he hesitates and thinks about removing his shoes. The movers will arrive soon, though, and the house will need a thorough cleaning afterwards. He takes care not to scuff the floor with his shoes or cane. 

Hank is more difficult to find than Raven, but Charles eventually corners him in the kitchen. He’s on his knees in front of the stove, head shoved into the open maw of the oven. Charles sniffs the dusty air and smells the tang of gas, but he trusts that Hank has everything under control. The kitchen before him is spacious and wide, with all the appliances lining one wall, stove and fridge trapping a deep sink between them. The appliances themselves aren’t as new as the ones in the Xavier mansion they’d left behind. Fingerprints and the remnants of splashing grease mar the mint-green fridge, and the stove lacks any kind of display for temperature. Charles wanders farther into the kitchen to wipes his hands on the wood countertops, remembering a time when he’d walked into a butcher shop and seen chunks of meat on cutting blocks. There’s a broken tile under Charles’ foot, and the pieces come loose from the grout when he steps away. However, despite the wear and age of the kitchen, he appreciates its simplicity and useful space. 

Hank spies him standing there as he goes to remove his head from the oven. Startled, he instantly jerks up, introducing the back of his skull to said oven. Charles winces sympathetically with the resounding bang of metal-on-bone. 

“Jesus, Charles,” Hank breathes on his ass as he cradles the back of his head. “I didn’t hear you come in.” 

“Sorry.” Charles lends Hank his free hand and pulls his friend up. “Is everything in order, so far? Besides the back of your poor head. I truly am sorry, Hank.” 

Hank waves him off before rubbing the obvious sore spot. “I’ll be all right. Wasn’t the first time I stood up without the right amount of clearance, won’t be the last.” Hank flicks his unoccupied hand at the oven and continues, “The pilot light was out on the stove, so I lit it. The fridge was unplugged, but the compressor started right up when I plugged it back in, so the electricity and gas are already on.” 

Charles nods as they shuffle away from the kitchen proper and stand in the dining room. The boards covering the windows and sliding door dim the room, and the space feels smaller because of the darkness. The tiles of the kitchen flow into this room, but they all feel firmly mortared to the floor. Charles promises himself to ask the movers if they can possibly remove the protective boards nailed down outside. If not, he’ll help Raven and Hank with the task. He knows they’ll rebuff his offer, but he won’t sit idly by while they do everything. He’s not an invalid. 

“I suppose,” Charles murmurs, “that we should wait outside for the movers, in case we don’t hear them come up. Can’t have them tripping over that line in the grass.” 

Hank nods and leads Charles back the way he’d come. “I’ll definitely look into removing that and seeing about some landscaping. You still wanna start a garden, yea?”  
  
Charles lingers in the shade of the porch when they step outside, with Raven nowhere to be found. He stares out at the overgrown field, searching for the perfect spot for some vegetables. With Hank working at the university thirty minutes away and Raven seeking employment in their new, quaint town, Charles will have to keep himself busy. Gardening will get him outside and hopefully help keep his paranoia under control. Even now, Charles mind itches knowing that his back is to an open, large room. They haven’t explored the house, yet, and there’s much to do before he’ll be comfortable enough to sleep well. Hank smiles softly at him, probably feeling his projected anxiety, and steps off the porch to trek back through the grass. Charles lingers in the shade for a moment, eyes darting to the shivering tree line and what unknowns lay there.


	2. Beast of Gevaudan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for taking a chance on a new Cherik writer lol.

Landscaping the field surrounding the house reveals a neglected garden, which Charles takes to repairing with gusto. The soil shows remnants of tilling and the dried out vines of watermelon plants sticking stubbornly to the dry earth. Clearing the vines out and aerating the soil takes time, but it all passes by much faster once Hank and Raven leave him for their jobs. Hank must travel half an hour each way, and Raven spends as much time as she can in the tiny village with passable cell reception and AC. She and Hank usually end up back home together, where Charles waits for them with dinner almost finished.

Charles doesn’t mind being alone, now that the house is in order. He and Hank had flattened the boxes and stored them in a closet. And thanks to the landscapers, the yard is tidy once again. He’s had no sightings of the shadow, but the back of his neck prickles as if something were watching him. The prickling had been worse during the work on the grassy yard. It had taken two members of the landscaping crew a full day to rip out the metal line and all the bells attached to it. It had run around the house in two concentric circles, just as Charles had thought. He’d kept one errant bell that the crew had missed picking up. It jingles softly in his pocket as he kneels with a trowel in a gloved hand.

The dugout rectangle of the previous garden isn’t quite large enough for Charles’ project. The back of the watermelon seed packet had warned him how wide reaching the plant could become, and Charles doesn’t want to crowd his plants. So, today’s to-do list consists of widening the garden by a foot, to better space out everything. The blade of the trowel is longer than a foot, but Charles uses it as a ruler anyway, just to keep the edge of the garden even. Sweat drips off his upper lip and forehead by the time he’s half way done with the widening. His tool strikes something distinctly not-soil under the layers of earth.

Rolling his eyes, thinking it to be yet another rock, Charles loosens the dry soil before thrusting his gloved hands down where he’s struck something. The earth has a solid grip on it, but Charles manages to wrestle it free with a burst of strength he hasn’t used in a while. He’s immediately thankful that he’s alone, though, when he falls on his ass in the dirt. Charles laughs, embarrassed, and hefts the clump of tightly packed soil in his hand. A thin, silver chain sparkles on the surface of the ball, and Charles hunches over his prize to pick at it. His shadow blocks the relentless sun overhead. It’s much easier to squint through the sweat when the ball comes apart, leaving earth and…

“A necklace?” Charles thumbs dirt out from triangle crevices in the pendant, revealing a Star of David. “What on earth?”

The back of Charles’ neck pricks like the first day when they’d arrived, and his eyes instantly turn towards the shadows under the trees. The wind has died in the yard. Charles finally keys into the silence as well, noticing the lack of birdsong. Again, though, no spark of a mind lies hidden in the trees, but Charles can’t shake the unease of being watched. Petting the scratched surface of the star, no larger than a quarter, Charles wraps the chain around the star’s points and secrets it away in his pocket. This frees both of his hands, and the coil of constricting vulnerability loosens ever so slightly. He’s an easy target on the ground. He doesn’t linger there for much longer, grabbing his abandoned trowel and dragging himself to his knees again. As if the animals around him had been on pause, insects and birds take up their music again, and Charles releases his held breath. He returns to work, ignoring the animosity practically leaking out of the forest.

Later, as the thick, dull blade of the trowel divides the earth and continues Charles’ progress, the whisper of a handful of minds tickles just across his brow. Charles wipes his forearm across his forehead and pops up from the ground as fast as his legs allow. His chest tightens once again with anxiety. The whisper doesn’t cross the property line. Charles turns towards the tree tunnel leading to the road and closes his eyes to focus on the sound. A group of children, five—a flash of blue, no  _ six _ —stomp their sneakered feet down the road in front of the house and scream all the way through lavender field. Charles follows behind them, a phantom, until one child stops and he slams into a wall.

She stares at him, as if he’s actually there, and takes a step forward. There’s no fear or happiness in that face, only cold calculation. She freezes his consciousness there, approaching with careful steps, until a gruff voice shouts a name.

“Jean!”

Her face softens, and she lets him go. Charles doesn’t dare take another step, too dazzled by the strength of this young girl. She bites her lip and finally whirls around to run into the house where the others had disappeared. Charles opens his eyes in his field. He throws the trowel down and steps out of the carefully worked garden. Eager to wipe the sweat from his face, Charles waddles stiffly to a clean rag and a full water bottle he’d left out earlier on the porch. The water is warm on his lips, but he gulps half of it down anyway. He splashes some of the remaining water on the rag and brushes beads of sweat from his face and neck. He’d seen at least two mutants among the children, and he can’t help but hope maybe they’re all mutants, banding together during the cruelty of childhood.

Presentable again, Charles knocks dirt out of the soles of his shoes with his cane and struts off towards the road. The end of his cane seeks out familiar ruts in the path and helps Charles keep his feet under him. The path’s grade is gradual enough for Charles’ sensitive knees, but his breath comes out with a rasp all the same. Charles makes sure to look both ways before dashing across the street. An image of an old turtle, skittering along the road, burns his cheeks. Charles instantly slows his gate, so that he can walk with less eccentricity and more dignity. He manages to step down from the shoulder of the road into the channel between the lavender and tomato field without too much trouble.

Charles drags his free hand out to the tomato plants clinging to metal cages. His fingers catch on the grid layout of the metal, but he makes sure not to dislodge anything. A few plants host immature, green fruit already, but nothing is ready for picking yet. There are no signs of insects or snails on the foliage, and Charles hopes that his plants might also be spared from pestilence. The thought of using pesticide on his little plot twists his stomach into a knot. It’s nothing to worry about for now, though, and Charles shakes the thought from his head as he exits the field and stands before the house.

Children laugh and chatter inside the house, and the gruff voice he’d heard before murmurs amongst them. Charles stands with his hands cupped over the handle of his cane, an open smile already on his face. The voices wind down to silence, and then the children burst from the front door like he’d seen yesterday and tear off, into the field. However, a pair of blue hands creeps around the doorframe, and a timid face peeks at him from under a dark flop of hair. Charles straightens his back ever so slightly and waves. Crimson eyes blink at him, glance at the other children yelling in the field, and then back at him. Charles bites back a grin and closes his eyes, satisfied with the soft sound of the child vanishing from the porch only to reappear a short distance away. Charles cracks his eyes open enough to watch a whip-thin tail disappear between two tomato plants. A cough urges his attention back to the house, though.

The image Charles had in mind for the owner of this voice isn’t exactly what he’d thought. He’d imaged someone with a hunched back, out of shape, and balding. The rather handsome man scowling at him from the porch is stunning, if not short like Charles himself. Hair a bit wild and graying in some places, he slips a cigar from behind his ear and rolls it between his fingers. He never takes his eyes off Charles, but he shifts his weight from hip-to-hip, as if unconcerned. Charles’ palms sweat while he waits for something to happen and lets out a gentle breath when the man finally speaks.

“Can I help you, bub? You lost or something?”

“No, no,” Charles starts after clearing his throat. “No, I moved in across the street, along with my sister and her husband a few weeks ago.” Charles points back towards the house. “I saw the children run by and got curious.”

The man’s shoulders tense up, squaring slowly all the way through Charles’ introduction. “Is there a problem?”

Charles’ mouth drops open a bit, and he takes a half step back. “No, absolutely not! I’m a mutant as well, absolutely no problem—”

Shoulders relaxing as Charles babbles, the man grins as he points at Charles with the cigar and says, “Wait a minute, I know you. You’re that activist in New York, the one who got shot a few months ago.”

The words catch in Charles’ throat, and he purses his lips to catch any snide remarks that might try to come out. “It was two years ago, actually, and I’m not in the rally or angry speeches game any more. That’s why I’m your new neighbor, mister…”

“Oh shit, what was your name? Chuck something, something fancy…”

“Xavier,” Charles mutters.

The man barks a laugh at him before hold the cigar at the corner of his mouth and slipping a lighter from his pocket. Ember glowing at the business end, he secrets the lighter away again and exhales a cloud of smoke into the sky, rather than in Charles’ direction.

“Right, Chuck Xavier, that’s right. Sorry if I scared you. They might not be mine, but I’ll bury people over those kids.”

Charles nods and takes a step closer, offering his hand. “Likely, mister…”

“Logan.” A rough, thick hand snatches his up and presses skin and dirt into his palm. “Just Logan, no need for that mister shit.”

Charles makes an extreme effort not to wipe his hand on his shirt. Not even out of any disgust, but his palm is sweaty and he can’t help but feel Logan noticed. He doesn’t say anything about it, though, and simply turns back to the house. He waves a hand over his shoulder, beckoning Charles closer, and disappears inside. Charles is fast enough to glance at Logan’s feet, spying his boots, before stepping onto the porch and leaving his shoes on. The heat doesn’t lessen any inside. Logan’s house is like theirs, without AC. However, it’s shaded, and Logan has a ceiling fan as well as a floor fan on oscillate whirling away. Charles bows his head a bit in thanks and scoots a chair near where Logan has plopped down. The chairs do not match.

“So,” Logan begins around his cigar, “you quit the rat race, and now you’re out here with us country folk.” ‘Country folk’ comes out of his mouth hard, square at the edges and a kick on the k in folk. Logan lifts an eyebrow at him. “What are your plans, Chuck? Where are you going?”

Charles shifts on the wooden chair, trying to relax. Logan’s gaze pins him down and sinks into him, like a dart in a board. Squirming in the chair one last time, Charles clears his throat and says, “Well, when the grass was all trimmed away, we found a garden someone had once planted. I’m in the process of clearing it now and attempting to make something out of it. It will… be a good use of my sudden overabundance of free time.” When Logan offers nothing in reply, Charles tacks on as a last thought, “Oh, and I’d like to walk around the forest here and just… explore, I guess.”

Logan hums and leans back in his chair. It creaks under him, but doesn’t seem likely to give out any time soon. The coal at the end of his cigar has died, so Logan plucks it from his mouth and balances it over an ashtray. He coils in on himself, then, with his arms braced on his thighs. It brings him closer to Charles, but not uncomfortably. Charles wiggles in the chair to try and scoot closer to Logan, but the legs remain firmly on the old hardwood floor. Logan balls a hand into a fist and covers it with the other, gazing outside at nothing instead of Charles.

“Word of advice, Chuck? Stay out of the woods.”

It’s Charles’ turn to lift an eyebrow, but when Logan turns his head to look at him, any attitude he’d had dissipates.

“I assure you, Logan, it won’t be my first hike in the woods. I might be a little wary around bears, but I didn’t think this was the climate for them.”

Logan’s eyes slip shut with a gentle shake of his head. “Bears are the least of your worries. Just, stay out of the woods. That’s my only warning.”

Bristling at Logan’s chiding tone, Charles hums and gets his cane in order to stand. “Thank you for that. If you ever need help with the children, feel free to send them my way.”  _ Telepaths make for great nannies _ .

“I’m sure,” Logan drawls at his back, unfazed by Charles’ snappy gearshift from verbal to mental.

Charles rocks to a stop on the porch and turns back to Logan. He’s still seated, although he’s reclined back again. Hands folded over his cane once more, Charles cocks his head in a friendly way and murmurs, “I’ve shown you mine, now show me yours. What is your mutation, Mr. Logan?”

Logan huffs at him, lips twisted in an almost grin. He lifts a fist as if to flick Charles off, but instead three blades pierce through his skin like claws. Charles expects a warm blush of pride to touch his mind, but only pain oozes out of Logan. Excitement sweeps over Charles, but not to the extent the other telepath or the shy, blue boy had intrigued him. His fellow mutant’s suffering douses that fire. Logan grimaces with the effort, finally, and the blades disappear with a slick noise. Charles swallows hard and nods at Logan’s lowering fist.

“A rather double edged sword you’ve got there.”

Logan rubs at the hand he’d shown Charles and grumbles darkly, “You don’t know the half of it, bub.”

  
Charles nods and finally leaves the house to Logan. 


	3. Have You Checked the Children?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love Nightcrawler. Also, thanks for comments, kudos, etc~

It only takes a few days for the children to seek him out. Charles has a few tomato plants in the ground with cages already around them, planning for the future. From the lane, the children shuffle into view while looking around the yard. Charles pauses to wipe sweat off his face and waves at them. They cluster together like a nervous school of fish as they weave and shove their way closer to him. Charles cranes his neck to see them and finds the little girl who had held him back yesterday is missing. Charles claps his gloves together to dislodge some dirt before removing them. They land with a soft flop on his pile of gardening tools. Eager for a break, Charles smiles at the children and wanders back to the porch where he’d once again left out water.

“Hello, everyone,” he greets cheerfully when they all finally meet at the porch. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Five pairs of eyes avoid looking at him until the boy in front asks, “What are you doing?”

Charles shrugs and gestures with the water bottle to his modest garden. “Attempting to grow food. It’s not as easy as your friend Logan makes it look. Perhaps I should have started with flowers…”

The children laugh quietly at him, and Charles counts that as an icebreaker. “My name is Charles, if Logan neglected to mention it. Might I know your names?”

The boy who had spoken first puffs out his chest, straightens his dark glasses on his nose, and says with a grin, “I’m Scott.” He turns and points at each kid, rather than give them a turn to speak. “That’s Sean and Angel”—Sean ducks his head shyly while Angel grins at him—”and Ororo and Kurt hiding behind her.”

“I’m not hiding!” Charles catches a glance of red eyes and a blue nose before Kurt darts back behind Ororo. She gives Charles a friendly smile and a shrug before stepping out of the way. Kurt looks at everyone with a pout and mumbles, “I’m not.”

“Certainly not,” Charles agrees, attempting to keep any patronizing tone out of his voice. “We’re all friends here, although shouldn’t there be one more?”

Scott glances over his shoulders at everyone, as if seeking an answer to give him. Charles senses the panic—fast, quick! Someone lie! —in the group as they grasp at straws for something to say. Even if they weren’t children, they’d be hard pressed to keep their frantic looks under wraps. Charles clears his throat to gain their attention again. He buffs up his smile, through the ache rising again in his legs and hips, and waves his hand to disperse their chattering.

“It’s all right, so long as she didn’t think she wasn’t welcome. I’m here all the time, and I don’t mind the company. Come and go as you please.”

Sean and Angel lift their heads to get a view inside the house. It reminds Charles of what Logan had said to him about the woods. Surely the children have been warned to stay away. It occurs to him that none of them have probably ever been over here, considering Logan’s tone. The whole of this side of the road might have been off limits to them. There certainly wasn’t any sign of human activity on the grounds before Charles had moved in. Charles remembers growing up and creating wild tales for places he wasn’t allowed to go, holding on to those make-believe games even as a teenager.

“Would, would you like to go inside?” Charles gestures to the open sliding door that leads into a room he’s claimed as a library. “There’s no AC, I’m afraid, but there’s plenty to explore. I gather from Logan that I might live in the Boogeyman’s house.”

“Nah,” Scott shrugs with a scoff. “Nothing weird about the house. He’s definitely living in your backyard, though.”

“You’ve seen it, right?” Angel yells over anything else Scott might have tried to say.

Sean chimes in at that moment, too, and even Kurt mumbles something in his heavy accent from the back. They crowd in by his knees and stare at him with wide, wondrous eyes. Charles leans back a bit, overcome with their minds firing off images and constructed stories. Their imaginations vary on the size and look of the beast, but the smell of rusty iron persists in each. None seem to have come into direct contact with it, though, and Charles is glad of that. They’ve witnessed it, like him, from far away but just close enough to unnerve. With the exception of Sean, though, judging by how wildly embellished his thoughts are and how similar they appear to Scott’s.

Charles lifts a hand to try and get a word in, but his attempt is lost on the children. They squeeze in close and fight for his attention like lions jostling for position over a carcass. Their excitement is infectious, though, and Charles finds his chest growing tighter with a laugh. Kurt, the shortest, jumps up and down from behind them and pouts again when he can’t join the fray. In a blue flash, though, he appears at Charles’ side and clutches onto the sleeve of his rolled up shirt.

“It won’t come out here in the open… Will it?”

The question brings the roaring conversation to a stop, though, and all eyes turn on Charles. The neck-breaking shift in mood from blind excitement to fear nearly winds him. Charles reaches up and covers Kurt’s shaking fingers with his hand. He offers a smile to Kurt before turning it on all of them. Scott grimaces in the sun while Sean, Angel, and Ororo bite their lips and wait for him to say something. Charles can’t help but look to the trees to make sure nothing is there. He hasn’t felt the prick of a furious, unknown gaze on him in a few days, though. But he knows there’s something out there.

“Nothing,” he assures them with his strongest ‘big brother’ voice, “will happen to you while I’m here.”

Kurt slips his hands out from under Charles’ comforting touch and squeezes next to him on the porch. “Are you a mutant, too, Charles?”

“Logan said you’re like Jean,” Ororo points out. “Can you move things?”

“Oh, no.” Charles chuckles a few times. “Telepathy is my specialty. I didn’t know Jean was telekinetic, and I’m a bit jealous.” Scott nods with his arms crossed over his chest, as if his ‘jealousy’ were expected. “If you don’t mind me asking, are all of you…”

“Mutants?” Kurt finishes his sentence.

“Yes, although I admit it’s not always polite to ask when you first meet someone.”

The children glance at each other as if he’s said something strange, but no one comments on it. Charles exercises caution out of habit, and a scar beside his spine burns as a reminder. He watches sweat dampen everyone’s forehead and trap stray hairs to skin. Moving the conversation inside, with chairs for all and a fan blowing, seems like a good idea. Charles takes advantage of the brief silence to force himself back on his feet. He thanks Kurt when the young boy shoots up and hands his cane over from where he’d left it, away from the stairs.

“I think it’s time for a break from the sun, don’t you?”

Seated in the cooler shade of the house, the children open up again and pour out their feelings on Charles. They each take time to tell him their power, even giving up how they discovered it. Charles gains a sense of the group dynamic from their chattering, from Scott’s bossiness to Ororo’s maturity. Sean and Angel have known each other the longest, while Kurt is the most recent addition to the group. They live in the nearby town and attend school together, except for Jean who is the youngest and homeschooled.

“I didn’t wanna say anything earlier,” Ororo starts once they’ve all calmed down, “but I think I’ve seen you on the news a few times.”

Charles sighs through a smile and nods. “Yes, I’ve been on the news plenty of times. I suppose you all wonder how I ended up here, rolling in the dirt?”

Ororo shrugs like she isn’t curious, but the other children all lean in on the table, ready for his confession.

“You’ve seen me on TV, probably being bad mouthed by the news casters, because I was involved in a group of mutants trying to achieve open integration of mutants and non-mutants.”

Silence greets the end of his explanation, and Charles rolls his shoulder, ready to try again. “We wanted mutants to be ‘out,’ you might say. Honest about who we are and what we can do. But we wanted to be integrated into society, same as we are now. We wanted to avoid any ‘separate but equal’ situations.”

The children nod in understanding, and Angel asks, “So why did you stop? What happened?”

“He was shot,” Scott interrupts before Charles can say. “Some psycho shot him.”

Charles purses his lips and gently corrects him. “My attacker was not ‘some psycho,’ Scott, no matter the moniker or outdated term the press tried to give him. He was—”

Subtly, under the electric, bright thoughts of the children, something wild brushes against Charles’ mind. He shakes his head, mistaking it for anxiety of remembering those events, but the touch lingers. Scott mutters under his breath, and Angel immediately jumps to the defense on whatever he’d said. Their squabbling gives Charles a precious moment to lift a hand to his head and focus on that foreign mind. He speeds across the floor, past the garden, and through the field, flitting over all of it as swift as a mouse. He centers on the creature reaching out to him soon enough. It’s easy enough to slip in, to see through the eyes of the stranger.

Its sight is muddled, tunnel visioned and dull in color. From a few feet inside the tree line, it stares through the field. Its breath comes out raspy and clouded as if something is choking it. The sight Charles snoops on isn’t superhuman, but it’s sharp enough to make out him and the children sitting in the library. Anger and hunger blanket Charles in this mind, trying to suffocate him. The emotions wane for a short moment, while the creature eyes their little collection of mutants. Charles sweats while controlling such a turmoil-ridden mind, and during his slip, those eyes focus on him. The creature stares at him and shuffles closer to the tree line, just to see him clearer.

Charles shoots up from the table, knocking back his chair. The children’s arguing stops immediately, and they cower at the table under his grimace. Kurt reaches for him, but thinks better of it at the last second and huddles against Ororo instead. Charles pants and sweats as if he’d run a few miles. He struggles to implant the suggestion in that animal mind to leave, to go somewhere else. He can’t see anything from here, but he knows something alive is out there this time. The shadow he’d seen, the phantom the children have seen and heard about, is nowhere to be found this time. Instead, the puppetmaster loiters in the woods.

Outside, the skies darken and the wind picks up. The air around the house howls with a gale that blows from nowhere. Charles releases the mind of whatever is out there as it panics and crashes through the undergrowth to run away. The house shakes, and dust floats down under the power whipping the land into a frenzy. It ends once Charles relaxes, the sky lightening again and the air stilling once more. Wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, Charles coughs once and rights his chair. None of the children seem concerned about the bizarre weather, but they all arch towards him with concern painted on their faces.

“Thank you, Ororo,” Charles pants once he’s seated. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

“Was it the creature?” Kurt asks, reassuming his spot beside Charles. “Was it coming here? You stopped it?”

Charles’s face twitches in a smile, and he sags back into his chair. “I’m not sure. I started talking about my attacker, and it was just… out there. Gone now, though. Nothing to worry about.” Charles withholds the fact that it had been watching them, not wanting to frighten the children away from any future visits.

“How did you know it was there?” Scott asks with disbelief dripping off every word.

“Who just jumps out of a chair like that, if there’s nothing crazy going on?” Angel asks with a roll of her head, mocking Scott. “You saw! He was focused and everything! Did you mind battle with it?”

Charles’s shoulder shake with a laugh, imagining the scene of a silent, yet dramatic, ‘mind battle.’ Maybe not so silent, if he and another person made silly noises. He’s certainly done it as a child with Raven, teaching her through fun and games how to strengthen her mind against a telepath. Charles combs a hand through his hair and sighs in his chair. The wild mind out there had been an open book, yet its savageness had been severe enough to force him out. He decides the mind had been human, or what was left of a human mind. But whatever it is, it’s out there and broken.

“I subtly suggested that it should go away and find something else to do. It fought me, but it was afraid of the storm and took off. It wouldn’t have come close, but no reason to let it think it can just wander around freely.”

The children nod, although Scott’s mouth still twists up tight. Annoyance sours his thoughts, so Charles mutes them and continues his story. “Anyway, the man who attacked me simply disagreed with our mission, and he decided to settle that dispute with violence. He thought hurting me would silence the movement.” Charles shifts in his chair to ease pressure off the scar on his back. “It didn’t work, though. I have friends who are still active. I just wanted to get away for a bit.”

“Like a vacation?” Sean asks.

Charles shrugs and nods, liking that excuse. “That’s about right, yes. I’ll go back one day, fight the good fight.”

He says it with a laugh, and the kids laugh with him, except Ororo. She smiles thinly at him, but he hasn’t fooled her. Charles licks his lips and groans while standing from his chair. He’s exhausted his reserve for conversation and social contact. Not that he doesn’t already love them, even Scott, but the encounter with the creature has tired him. He’s sure that Ororo would keep quiet about any doubts she has, but he squirms under her young, penetrating gaze. How someone still so innocent can see right through him, Charles will never know.

“I’m sorry, kids, but after the epic ‘mind battle,’ as Angel put it, and with the heat, I’m not feeling well. You’re welcome to stay, but I think I’m do for a nap.”

Kurt, Sean, and Angel whine and groan at his words. Scott shrugs and stands from his chair, scooting it in with his hip. “Let’s go bother Logan. Jean has probably talked his ear off by now.”

“Yea, right,” Angel cackles. “If anyone is gonna talk Logan’s ear off, it’s you.”

Scott barks back, “Shut up,” and stomps from the house with his shoulders hunched high.

Sean and Angel take off after yelling farewells to Charles, promising to come back tomorrow. Ororo grins at him and beckons Kurt away so that they can catch up. Kurt flings his arms around Charles’ waist, squeezing him, before flashing to Ororo’s side. Beyond them, the others have made it through the field where they scream and yell for Kurt and Ororo to hurry. Charles swipes his cane up from where he’d leaned it between a bookcase and a wall. He hobbles to Kurt’s side before he can transport them into the yard.

“I’ll join you down the lane. I’m very interested to see your power for myself, Kurt. If that’s all right?”

Kurt’s tail thrashes and his face lights up. He glances to Ororo, seeking her approval. She smirks and drawls, “Well? Can you do it?”

“Yes!” He shouts and offers a hand to Charles. “I will try!”

Charles bites his lip to keep a face-splitting grin from surfacing. If Kurt saw it and thought he was teasing, he might lose face and recede back into his shell. Charles holds his hand securely, completely faithful that Kurt can carry the three of them at once. He keeps his eyes open, wanting to experience Kurt’s ability with every sense. His scientific brain attempts to puzzle out how the transportation works, if Kurt simply moves incredibly fast, if perhaps they move molecule by molecule, or perhaps a wormhole— But during his puzzling, Kurt has blinked them from the house to the lane without much effort. Charles’s head spins, and his stomach rolls, but there’s nothing for him to spit up. He holds still, keeping his face neutral so that he doesn’t insult Kurt.

“Please, Charles, don’t worry if you feel sick,” Kurt says with deliberate stress on every word. He pats Charles’ arm and murmurs, “Everyone does. I hope you’re okay, that it’s all right.”

Charles only speaks when he’s sure everything will stay put. “You’re marvelous Kurt. I commend your control, for being so young.” Charles places a hand on Kurt’s shoulder and drinks in his bright smile. “Well done.”

The others have wandered down the lane, and Kurt jogs down the slope to join them. Charles hobbles behind, just happy to see them all together. They wait at the road, tightly clustered and eager to cross over to Logan’s fields. Charles closes in behind them and looks both ways. He ushers them forward when the coast is clear, and the children take off at a mad dash across the concrete. On Logan’s side of the road, between two lavender mounds, stands Jean. She smiles at her friends as they take off into the field, but her smile vanishes as Charles approaches her.

“Hello, Jean.” He smiles softly and kneels in front of her. “I’m sorry you couldn’t come with them and see my house. I would have loved to have you there.”

She chews her bottom lip and stares past him, at the trees that creep up to the road.

“Are you all right, Jean?”

Charles turns his head to glance over his shoulder, but nothing’s there. A simple scouting of the area with his mind reveals nothing, either. Anxiety and dread drip from the poor girl in front of him, oozing out of her like sap from a damaged tree. Charles widens his power to a larger area, all the way to Logan’s and his own house, but still he feels nothing. Jean sniffles hard, and she holds down a distressed noise. Charles shifts back to Jean and frowns when he sees her pale face blanch even further to white. She’s on the verge of tears.

“My dear, what’s wrong?”

Her eyes tremble when she stares up at him. “Can’t you hear it?”

Her quiet, tiny voice draws Charles closer to her. “Hear what?” He whispers back.

Jean’s gaze flies to the trees again. “It’s angry. What did you do to it, Mr. Xavier?”

Charles brushes the underside of Jean’s wobbling chin with the hand not holding onto his cane. Her trembling doesn’t stop, though she manages to contain her tears. Charles blinks back the mist in his own eyes, overwhelmed with Jean’s agony and fear. He stands and takes her hand in his, leading her from the road. The other children have disappeared, but he hears their joyous cries from deep within Logan’s fields. Luckily, the man himself reclines in a rocking chair on the porch. Logan springs from the chair as if shocked when he sees Jean falling apart at Charles’ side.

“What happened?” Logan thunders at him.

“I’m not sure. She was waiting for us at the road and asked me if I could hear something. But there’s nothing around; I checked.”

Logan kneels in front of Jean and whips a handkerchief of all things from his pocket. He’s covered from head to toe in dirt and dust, but the cloth in his hand is spotless. He wipes at the few, silent tears that have escaped down Jean’s face. He murmurs quiet, soft things to her, which Charles closes his eyes to out of courtesy. Charles shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure if he should bend down and comfort Jean, too. Logan turns eyes with dark bruises under them up at Charles, and some of his fury has passed.

“You wouldn’t know this, seeing as you haven’t really met Jean yet, but she’s telepathic.”

“Oh no, I gathered. She put me in my place the other day, really.”

Logan scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You’re lucky she didn’t turn your brain into mush. She’s an ace at the whole telekinetic thing, but she doesn’t have great control over her telepathic powers. She’s doesn’t have the polish you have, being able to block people or narrow your range. It’s all or nothing with her.”

Charles stares down at Jean with newfound respect and sadness. Widening his scope hadn’t worked, because Jean’s view far outreached his own. Charles kneels again and places a hand on the back of her head, cradling her as she continues to shake. She flinches at his touch, but she relaxes after a moment when nothing happens. Logan has long since finished wiping her tears away, but she keeps a vice grip on his hand. His skin turns white where her nails bite into his flesh.

“Can I help you, Jean? Can I enter your mind and block whatever is upsetting you? It won’t be permanent, but it’ll give you some relief.”

Logan fires a scathing glance at him and murmurs, “Don’t, bub. Don’t go messing with her. She’ll tear you to pieces.”

Charles lifts an eyebrow at him over Jean’s head. She nods under his palm, though, and goes still. It doesn’t take much to blind Jean to whatever is hurting her. Charles absorbs her mind into his self made shield, blocking everything but the three of them. For a moment, Charles catches a brief glance of what terrified Jean so, the image at the forefront of her mind. She swings happily in her backyard, hands curled around both chains attached to the seat. Her speed slows over time, despite her small legs kicking furiously. Jean shakes the chain in her hands and pouts when she comes to a full stop. At the edge of her yard, where grass gives to bush and tree, her eyes catch on something.

Two figures hide in the shade of the trees. One Charles recognizes immediately as the prowling, waist-high creature without a mind that he’d seen the first day. Beside it stands a man, or perhaps something close to a man. His clothes are torn and filthy, with skin covered in dirt and mud to match. His hair is overgrown, down to his shoulders, and twigs and spider webs tangle in his unkempt beard. Jean bites her lip as she stares back at those steely eyes, beckoning him and the creature to leave her alone. The man winces and snarls as if her suggestion is a wasp flying about his head. The moment passes, though, and he stalks away with dead eyes, back into the woods. Jean flees her swing once they’ve left, and the memory ends.

Charles sucks in a breath at the stomach churning fear laced into the fabric of the memory. The other children have assured him they’d never met anything in the woods. Unfortunately for Jean, the poor girl, the man and his shadowy beast had stumbled upon her. Jean straightens under his hand, going tense when she feels his distress. She ducks under his touch and turns to him, eyes wide and confused. Logan sighs, unaware of what’s happened, and stuffs the handkerchief in his pocket as he stands. He mumbles something about water and leaves them in the dirt yard surrounding the house.

“You’ve seen it, then.” Charles considers his words careful, remembering Jean’s young age. “The others have seen the beast, too, but they’ve never mentioned a man. Do you know them?”

Jean shakes her head. “No, and they’ve never come out like that again. I usually yell at it to go away, and it stays away. That time…” She pauses, closing her eyes and biting her lip again, before resurfacing to continue. “That time, its thoughts were like an animal. So, I thought maybe a raccoon was nearby. It’s usually…”

“Angry,” Charles murmurs under his breath. He recalls the muddled mind from earlier, how its fury had forced him out.

They spend a moment then, collecting themselves and sorting out their emotions. Charles smoothes out his distress like an iron runs over wrinkles in a cloth. Jean has her own way, picking at her thoughts as if she were weeding a garden. Charles watches her, once he’s done, and smiles softly at her tenacity and patience. When Jean opens her eyes again, her head whips around from left to right, and she gazes up at him in wonder. It’s then that Charles remembers what he’d actually done for her.

“It,” Jean whispers. “It’s so quiet. It is always like this? For you?”

Charles smiles and dries a wet spot at the corner of her eye. “If I want it to be, yes. I didn’t know you were suffering so much. Is there no one who can teach you to control your power?”

“No,” she says above a whisper, sniffling to clear her sinuses. “You’re the only other telepath I’ve ever met.”

“I can teach you,” Charles offers immediately. “I’d love to.”

A watery smile floats on Jean’s face, but it’s washed away by that same cold expression he’d seen when she’d frozen him.

“The necklace in your pocket, Mr. Xaiver. You should bury it.”

Charles’ smile slips from his face. He pats the aforementioned pocket, feeling the quarter-sized pendant against his leg. He’d forgotten about it. More importantly, he wants to know how Jean knew about it.

“It’s angry that you have it. You should have never dug it up.”

“How do you know all this?” There’s an edge in his voice he didn’t mean to have, but Jean’s words sound more like a warning than a suggestion.

“It knows you have it.” Jean nods to his hand covering the Star of David. “The necklace is metal. You can’t hide anything metal from it.”

Charles licks his lips, unsure he wants to hear the answer to his next question. “Have you seen the creature recently? Has it come after you, since?”

Jean shakes her head, a wrinkle of fear marring her blank mask. “I hear it. All the time. It thinks very loudly, when it can think at all. Please, Mr. Xavier. Bury the necklace.”

  
Charles opens his mouth to ask more questions, so many more questions, but Jean takes off. She runs with abandon, the crazy speed only small children have. The rows of tomato plants seem to open up for her, only to seal shut behind her and cover her tracks. Charles would never run after her anyway, not wanting to find out what Logan would do if he saw. Charles turns his eyes to the house to find Logan staring in the direction Jean had run. He glances at Charles out of the corner of his eye. His mouth twitches, and he sits down heavily in the rocking chair. He watches over the field even as Charles turns to leave.


	4. The Call is Coming from Inside the House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit finally hits the fan. That minor violence warning is for this chapter lol. Poor Charles.
> 
> If you would like some mood music for this chapter, I highly recommend the original soundtrack of the film The Village. YouTube that shit.

_ “The necklace is metal. You can’t hide anything metal from it.” _

Charles takes Jean’s warning to heart, although he doesn’t follow her advice about the necklace. Instead, his interest in the man festers and bloats until he can do nothing but stare at the forest, searching for that animal mind. After the day Ororo had frightened it with a storm, however, Charles hasn’t felt it since. He stands on the porch in one of the few pairs of pants he owns without a zipper or metal eyelets and waits. Whatever it is that stalks the tree line, the bizarre man’s companion, it continues to make shadowed appearances. Charles is familiar with waiting out a target, though.

Insects cry and swarm amongst the trees. Their sounds bounce off the thick, summer foliage, and it builds into constant, white noise. Crows join in on the nature concert, and the noise of it all is almost too much for Charles. He can’t risk focusing on any nearby mind, though. Tuning into the children or even Logan would distract him from the task at hand. The longer the morning drags on, the heavier the air grows. By now, Charles is used to the typical damp that bears down oppressively on the valley. This moisture building with the rising sun threatens rain, though.

Charles pinches the bridge of his nose, irritated at the shadow’s sudden shyness. It stalks him constantly when he’s alone. It shows caution, or perhaps its master shows caution, whenever the children or Raven or Hank are around. When Charles minds his own during the day in the library or in the garden, though, the woods grow still with its foreboding presence. Charles’ patience has run thin under such constant surveillance. Despite Logan’s serious tone on the matter and the dreadful images from the children, Charles gathers his courage to change the situation. He grows tired of being watched.

The grass of their yard brushes up Charles’ covered legs as he crosses the meadow. He makes a note to ask Hank and Raven what they think about hiring someone to tend to it. It’s definitely something that he can ruminate on later, much later when he isn’t stepping through the trees and into the forest. Charles’ gaze combs through the underbrush, and he lifts an eyebrow at deep, dry scratches slashed into the earth. He cocks his head back, looking out of the trees towards the house. The table and chairs he uses in the library when the children come over is easily visible from here. It’s a familiar sight, although this time without seeing it through another pair of eyes.

Biting his bottom lip, Charles drags his sneakered foot across the gashes. This is the distance the creature stalks him from, but he wonders if it truly made these marks. How did it go about such a thing, without leaving foot or paw prints behind? Charles sucks in a slow, deep breath through his mouth and exhales after holding it in. He reminds himself that the shadowy beast isn’t alive, doesn’t have a mind, and could therefore be made from anything. Charles leaves the gashed earth behind with once last glance and steps deeper into the woods.

He discovers a trail through the brush after losing sight of the house. It’s not dug out, like in a park he’d frequented in New York, but rather cleared away via constant use. Charles pauses on the trail, turning his head down either direction, trying to choose which way to go. If he walks right, though, it might even take him closer to the road, and he doesn’t want that. The left would take him north, away from their little east-west road. The handle of Charles’ cane squeaks under his tight fist, but he decides north in the end.

The trail’s grade increases the farther north he goes, but it’s not enough to dissuade him. Insects and birds still cloud the air with songs, but it’s somehow more tolerable in here. Charles shakes a smile off his face and wonders why he’d been so tightly wound before the start of his journey. Charles enjoys the sounds of nature and the dry rasp of dirt under his trainers until he arrives at a fork in the trail. The bare stretch of earth continues in a mostly-straight line north, over a hill and out of sight. A new branch connects to it, which would take him east.

Charles shields his eyes from the noon sun and cranes his neck to see the clouds. He’d rather not be caught in the rain, especially in unfamiliar woods. The humidity and high pressure threatening rain linger, but no storm clouds gather to the west. Charles vows to return to the house in an hour, confident that he can beat a summer storm if the sky begins to darken. More gashes dig into this easterly path than he’d seen on the original trail, and Charles hopes this might lead him to some answers.

Careful not to slide or trip down the steep hill this route takes him, Charles hobbles along at a slower pace than before. Just as Charles thinks his knees are done with stomping down the hill, he reaches a valley and stares up another slope. Sweat dampens the back of his shirt. He waves a hand in front of his face to chase away a tight ball of gnats that fly at his eyes. The growth around him is thicker here, and the trees huddle close together to seal the canopy above.  The shade provides protection from the sun, but nothing can save Charles from the humidity clogging the air. He pauses on the trail once it levels out, to catch his breath. On either side of him, the ground rolls gently with hills and rain runoff ditches. He’s obtained the high ground again, and because of that, he easily spots the clear space off to his left.

Charles quiets his loud breathing to concentrate on his surroundings. His desire to move on or investigate the cleared area goes to war with his anxiety over leaving the path. There’s no buzzing of a mind immediately nearby, even when Charles focuses on calls for food and water. Jean’s memory still chills him even days later. It’s difficult to listen to for such specific things, especially when hunger and thirst are unconscious desires. It’s easier to hear loud emotions, such as pain and anger. Charles stands on the trail for what seems like forever, searching for the quiet thoughts he usually tunes out.

There’s nothing, though. Nothing catches his general sweep of the area, and still nothing touches him when he focuses harder. He swings through the trees, from branch to branch like an ape, but not a soul answers his call. Charles comes back to himself, more centered than before, and turns on his heel to face the clearing. The first step over the dirt trail and into the brush seals his fate, from here on. His pace slows even more, now, than when he’d taken his time to walk down the steep slope from before. His eyes scan the ground below. He’s on the lookout for footprints and any stray beasties crawling along. While not afraid of snakes, Charles would rather not disturb one if he can avoid it.

He’s breathing hard again when he bursts out of the overgrowth and into the clearing. Charles pants as if he’d been running, sure that he’s covered a great distance. When he looks back, however, the trail isn’t that far. Were it not for his cane and aching legs, he would have stumbled through the low bushes like a madman. He has the racing heart of a madman, for sure. Sweat runs down the side of his face like tears, but he continues on. He’s already come this far, there’s no point in turning back over a bit of nerves. Chuckling, Charles smoothes his sweat dampened hair out of his face and limps into the clearing proper.

The grass here is trimmed and well maintained, like the foot clearing around the house before they’d moved in. Again, the earth shows no signs of mower tracks or footprints. That’s probably the least impressive thing about this clearing, though. Before Charles’ stunned eyes, in the shade of trees, lies cluster after cluster of gravestones. They’re rounded and dark with age, some even lilting out of the ground rather than sitting up straight. Charles holds a hand up to his mouth to prevent any sound from escaping and tarnishing the cemetery.

Charles kneels down beside the stone closest to him to read the inscription. However, it’s written in a language he doesn’t understand, although he recognizes Hebrew for what it is and the obvious Star of David above the writing. Charles’ fingers stroke the smooth stone beside the carvings, and sadness softens his face. He hopes the person buried here had lived a full life, that they had met no suffering in the end. Charles’ gaze travels to the other stones nearby, counting them in a casual sort of way. Hopefully, if not for his aching heart but for the people themselves, these graves span a great amount of time and were dug without haste. His eyes slip shut with the wave of melancholy that overtakes him.

The crack of a tin roof buckling and bending spears through the quiet of the cemetery. Charles jumps at the noise and whips his head around to find the source. On the far side of the cemetery and half behind a tree, the hindquarters of a bear slip into shadows. Charles freezes still, hoping the bear hadn’t noticed him. But he reaches out like a butterfly fluttering silently near its head and doesn’t hear a whisper of thought. The creature moves into a pillar of light shining down through the trees, and Charles spies rusted panels of metal sandwiched together. It’s not a bear at all, but a crude, almost modern art recreation of a bear. Sheets of metal have been forced together, forming the basic pieces. Charles remembers a crew replacing the hardwood floors of a classroom once, and the sandwiched pieces of metal remind him of a pile of floorboard. It’s fascinating to watch it walk with jerky movements. Every joint cries softly without lubrication. Despite his curiosity, Charles holds his breath and ducks down behind the gravestone, curling into a ball in hopes that the beast doesn’t seek him out.

The creaking of the metal bear continues, growing quieter with every rusty step. Charles lifts his head above the lichen-covered gravestone to watch the beast shuffle away. Sure that he won’t be spotted, Charles sacrifices his knees and crouches low to the ground, moving from headstone to headstone. The metallic groan of the bear changes while Charles isn’t looking, gaining a significant echo. Charles’s fingers dig into a headstone as he peers over the stone to watch. The bear sinks below ground, and Charles rockets up, confused. Once he gains a higher vantage point, though, Charles sees concrete steps leading into the earth, into a dark tunnel. The bear’s rusting joints sing out as it continues to walk away.

His fingernails scratch at the stone as he considers his next option. There’s no other mind around still, so Charles doubts the man Jean had met lurks nearby. Still, the thought of cornering himself below ground, with only a single means of escape, brings a chill to Charles’ spine. The woods have grown quiet around him, and it’s through this stillness that he hears the distant rumble of thunder. Charles gnaws on his bottom lip, feeling his chance of discovering the truth slipping away. Charles wipes his sweaty free hand on his trousers and continues scuttling behind headstones as he moves forward.

Charles arrives at the top of the stairs the metal bear had descended. A whiff of damp earth and mildew sours the air, and Charles wrinkles his nose at it. He eyes the stairs, assuming at first that they’re stone or concrete. However, when he steps down on one, the dull clang of metal reverberates down the dark stairwell into the abyss. The stairs have a metal paneling on them while the walls themselves are just bare concrete. Charles swallows hard with one hand braced on the wall and the other still on his cane.

_ “You can’t hide anything metal from it.” _

He squares his shoulders and descends another step. Charles keeps his mind off of the man who had watched Jean in her backyard. He hadn’t done anything to her, hadn’t given off any killing intent. A child had managed to drive him off, despite his menacing stare and presence. Besides, Charles reasons with himself the farther he goes, there’s no human he can’t stop, or at least convince them to stop. His mind catches on what exactly he would ‘stop’ and all the things that entails. He shakes his head in the cool, humid stairwell and continues. There’s nothing down here except some walking, metal sculpture. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

Charles’ hands skip across the rough texture of the concrete as he finally places both feet on the ground. He doesn’t stand in the dark for long before the damp air changes. Rust and metal rush up into his nose along with something else he can’t immediately identify. It’s offensive, as if a wet dog had rolled in a puddle of vinegar.  Charles shivers and bites his lip, to stop his quivering chin. Turning his head to the side, Charles exhales a shuttering breath. He continues on once his stomach stops turning at the smell.

The hallway he’s found himself in ends and widens into a single room. Sunlight from the top of the stairs barely lights the room down here at all, especially with Charles standing in the way. The whine of the metal bear catches Charles’ ear, and he finds it in one of the farthest corners of the room. The scent of rust and—Charles shutters again to think maybe the smell is  _ piss _ —vinegar stew heavily down here without fresh air. Charles’ shoes scrape on the ground, and something besides the bear stirs down here.

The pendant in his front pocket grows warm, as if excited by a blowtorch.

Charles stumbles back a shadow rises out of the dark. He catches a glimpse of eyes draped by overgrown hair before even a whisper of a mind reaches him.

Sleep. Hunger. Confusion, fear, anger,  **stranger.** Metal, mine, how, protect.... Thief, THEIF, DEFILER.

Charles’ hands strike out at the man who lunges for him. He manages to slap him away before turning for the stairs. Charles’ cane buckles under his hand, of course made mostly of aluminum and steel. A scream erupts from the man behind him. Charles crashes to his knees on the concrete steps, forced to crawl his way up them. The metal plates covering the stairs vibrate under his hands and heat up just as the necklace had. Charles tries not to touch them with bare skin, but it’s his hands or his life. He chooses life.

He only makes it halfway up the burning stairs before the metal plates attack him again. They rip off from the concrete they’re bolted to and tilt up at an angle. The stairs become a ramp, and Charles slides back down. The man towers over him, and Charles stares at him over his shoulder. Claw-like hands scratch at the man’s own face, as if he were trying to prying something away. He stumbles around the room, screaming under his hands even as all the metal around them cries in agony. Charles lifts a blistered hand to his head, attempting to stop all this.

_ I’m not here to hurt you. Please, calm down _ .

The man's hands come away with blood under the nails. His eyes, the whites tinged with yellow and bloodshot, dart wildly around the room. During the moment of confusion and weakness, the metal plates on the stairs flatten again. Charles urges his aching legs under him and dashes up the stairs on all fours. He gasps when he breaks the surface, glad to escape the stench, and crawls away from the stairs. Feet pound on the metal behind him, though, and angry grunting grows louder and closer. Charles has a moment to roll on his side before his legs seem to catch on fire.

_ “You can’t hide anything metal from it.” _

Charles tosses his head back into the grass and screams as he’s dragged back by the pins screwed into his bones. His legs leave the ground with the force pulling him, and his shirt rucks up under him, to leave his back at the mercy of the ground. The pain only stops when the man comes back into view, spitting with fury and eyes wild. He towers over Charles, standing between his legs, with his hands still outstretched even though all movement has stopped. Charles lifts a hand to his temple again, but those thin fingers in the air jerk hard. Charles is sure he’ll never speak again, thanks to the scream ripped out of him when the pins inside him  **move** .

A body collapses on him at the same time as his pants tear. The pendant shreds its way out of Charles’ pocket and into the waiting hand of the predator above him. Charles watches through tears as those claw-like fingers pet at the star’s smooth surface, coiling the chain around his palm. The weight across Charles’ hips doesn’t stay still for long, and the man bows over him. The rancid stench of him, unclean with soiled clothing, threatens to gag Charles. It’s the least of his problems when those hands wrap around his throat, trapping the pendant against his skin.

The telepath instantly throws his hands up at the animal face twisted into a snarl, gouging at his eyes and slapping him. Nothing budges the man, though, and he lifts Charles’ head up only to beat it against the ground while squeezing tighter. Charles’ fingers catch in his filthy shirt as strength leaves him with every passing second he’s deprived of air. His mouth gapes open, desperate to speak and plead for his life, but no sound comes out. Charles tastes blood on his tongue, and wonders how it got there.

_ Please _ , he reaches out in a last effort to live.  _ Don’t do this. This isn’t who you are _ .

Charles has never encountered a mind too wild for him to take control. His desperation grows. Charles flies through the man’s mind, catching glimpses of memories like peeking through a fence while on a bicycle. He hears a name, sees a younger, happier face. A family gathers around a menorah. There’s a young girl with a blush on her face, and her lips on his. Charles holds on to all of it, every bit of memory that’s unbroken by whatever illness or injury that plagues the man strangling him. Charles attempts to detangle all the wires he can find, to insert tab A into slot A when he’d found it jammed into slot Z. He’s never unmade a mind like this, never dreamed of it, but the marks of another telepath are here for him to read in plain black and white.

_ Your name is Erik. Your mother’s name is Edie, and your father Jakob. You knew a girl, Magda, she was your first kiss. _

The face above him uncrumples just a bit, but the hands at Charles’ throat hold fast. Charles tugs against that hold, turning his head to the side. If he must die, he can’t stand to look up at those penetrating, grey eyes. He finds a nearby gravestone and stares at it without truly looking at it. It bares the same script and star as the first one he’d touched. The Star of David at his throat still burns hot under Erik’s hand.

_ You’re… _

Unable to turn his head back, Charles stares at Erik out the corner of his eye. It’s all too confusing with the lack of oxygen and the bashing of his head, but it makes sense, too. The cemetery, the necklace, and the fierce wave of protection of this place rolling off Erik’s mind...

_ Jewish. _

Charles inhales with a bloody, ragged gasp when Erik lets him go. The heavy weight on top of him jerks away, but Erik’s shadow still covers him in darkness. Charles rolls onto his side, kicking up dust with his frantic breaths. He’d curl in on himself if everything below his knees weren’t on fire. He blinks through tears to watch Erik, wary that he might come back for a second round. Charles has nothing left to use for defense, and he won’t survive another tussle with those hands.

Having stumbled back after jumping off Charles, Erik stares at his shaking hands with clearer eyes. He pants, his whole body trembling with the effort, and looks around the graveyard. The hand still holding the necklace curls over it, and his thumb rubs against the smooth side. Those grey eyes dance across every tombstone, and he mouths something Charles can’t hear. Finally, his gaze lands on Charles, still on his side panting into the earth. His face clouds with fury again, and he kneels on top of Charles once more.

Shoving the star in his face, Erik rasps out, “Why do you have this?”

Charles struggles under him, hands shoving at Erik to put some distance between them. Erik smacks his hands away, rears his free fist back, and lets loose a sloppy punch. It’s forceful enough to roll Charles onto his other side, though, and his head bounces off the ground. Charles goes still beneath him after one last jerk of his body. Blood floods his mouth more than before, and Charles coordinates himself enough to spit it out. A fist tangles in his ruined shirt and shakes him.

“Why do you have this?!” Erik screams in his bruised, bloody face. “What grave did you disturb?”

Charles mouths, ‘no,’ but it’s not good enough. Erik shakes him again, almost knocking his head into the ground again. Charles covers Erik’s hand that’s twisted in his shirt, just to try and soothe the bottomless rage boiling off him.

“No, I didn’t,” Charles coughs. “I found it. In my garden. I... “—Erik thrashes him when he pauses for too long—”I didn’t know what to do with it.”

Charles replays the memory at the front of his mind, projecting it as hard as he can. He remembers digging the necklace up, freeing it of dirt, before pocketing it. Later that night, he gave it a proper washing off before wrapping it in a handkerchief. He’s carried it in his pocket ever since, keeping it close so that he wouldn’t misplace it. He couldn’t bear to lose it or give it away, having sensed something about it. He hadn’t understood why he’d found it in the ground, what the significance of that was. Charles still doesn’t understand, but so long as  **Erik** believes him, nothing matters.

It must satisfy Erik, though, because he drops Charles back to the ground and steps away from him. Charles watches light filter down through the thick canopy, the columns of light catching dust floating through the air. Metal whining reaches his ears along with the scent of rust, and Charles knows the bear has emerged from the concrete room. Erik’s voice murmurs something, but he doesn’t make out words. Charles drags in a deep breath, trembling on the ground, when Erik bends over him and fills his field of vision.

“Leave this place, and never come back.” Erik turns his back to Charles, but jerks around again with a thunderous look in his eyes. “And stay out.”

Charles lifts an eyebrow at him, although it’s painful to do so and a waste of energy. How he’ll leave the cemetery without the use of his legs—still currently burning in agony—he’d love to ask. Charles blinks through the many pains muddling his brain, hanging on the order to stay out. He wouldn’t re-enter Erik’s mind for anything less than to save his life, but he hasn’t the nerve to express that. Erik frowns at him when he doesn’t move. He leaves Charles’ line of sight, and strong hands fist in his clothes again. Erik drags him upright enough to drape him on his stomach, across the back of the metal bear. The beams of metal have smoothed along its back, allowing Charles to lie there without them poking or shredding him. His eyes slip shut, pushing out the last of his tears, before he goes limp. He doesn’t pass out, but he wishes he could.

The ride through the forest is quick, yet uncomfortable. Charles aches everywhere, and he lacks the energy to block the signals of pain. That had been the technique he’d used to make it through the surgeries on his legs and back, after the accident. Now, he bounces along as the bear dashes through the woods. Thunder rumbles menacingly overhead, but Charles can’t bring himself to care about that. He wonders where the bear will dump him, if perhaps a gutter somewhere or the side of the road will greet him.

However, when the bouncing stops and he cracks open an eye, Charles sees they’ve stopped at the steps leading to his porch. They’re alone, no Erik, no children, nothing. A few raindrops splash on the bruise blooming across his jaw, where Erik had struck him. Charles’ heartbeat thunders in his head, behind his eyes. With a groan, he shoves off and flops on the ground. The bear steps away from him, but doesn’t leave yet. Charles forces himself onto his forearms and knees and gazes up the three steps that lead onto the porch. Never before have they seemed so daunting.

Charles glances over his shoulder at the bear. It doesn’t have eyes, made of metal and not alive, but it stares at him with its triangular head, waiting. Swallowing and blinking through more rain, Charles grunts and drags himself to the steps. His nails scratch against the stone as he hauls his dead weight up them. He tries to put weight on his legs, but his shins light up in pain, and he gives up on that. Charles pants and more rain falls, picking up steadily. The sky darkens over them, and the skies have opened fully by the time Charles rests his cheek on the porch. The wood under his skin is cool to the touch. It’s a welcome relief to his bruised face, but he has to get the rest of his body up here, too.

The bear has vanished by the time Charles flops onto his back, stretching out on the porch. His vision is half roof overhang, half sky. The wind carries some of the rain onto the porch. It soaks the left side of his body in no time, chilling him. Charles sucks in shaking, ragged breaths and releases them in much the same way. He’s holding back everything he’d felt in Erik’s mind, as well as his own panic. The sorrow and madness have followed him, like a stowaway rat into the new world. Together, sorrow and madness gnaw a hole behind his heart and burrow into him. Charles flings an arm over his face as tears pool in his eyes, and he opens up much like the sky has above him.


	5. Secrets, Secrets Hurt Someone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late, if anyone were keeping count. I hit a mental road block five chapters away from this one. So eh.

Raven and Hank arrive home together to find Charles curled up on the floor of the library. After soaking in the rain, he’d managed to dig up enough strength to drag himself into the library and collapse at the foot of a couch. They shout their worries at him, rolling him onto his back and patting his unmarred cheek with soft hands. Charles opens an eye at them, looking from Raven’s furious, narrow eyes to Hank’s open mouth. His other eye, pulsing above the bruise courtesy of Erik’s fist, won’t open even with all his effort thrown at it. 

Charles closes his one working eye to his family and tries to fall back asleep. As much as he hates Raven and Hank coddling him, he might actually need it right now. Cataloguing his injuries quietly, Charles reaches out to his beaten face, the scrapes on his back, and his legs. He can’t feel his legs like he normally can, both of them white static and numb. His heart breaks at the thought that maybe Erik maimed him enough to paralyze him, but he hasn’t any energy left to cry. His back burns where Hank and Raven have rolled him over, but a warm bath and some disinfectant will take care of those. Charles winces and moans when he tries to open his mouth, the bruise blooming on his jaw and cheek igniting again. He has to think of something to tell them. 

Raven storms out of the bathroom they carry him to once he’s situated in the bath. Hank mumbles apologies—for his nakedness, for Raven, for everything—and brushes hair out of Charles’ face. They’re alone with the drip drip of water in the bathroom long enough for Raven to make a phone call. She stampedes back into the room with her cell phone clutched in her hand. The plastic outer shell whines under the raging power of her hand squeezing it. But it’s a better recipient of her anger than anything else—a wall, a pillow, them. She eyeballs his ruined clothes and snatches them up, surely to throw them away. 

Coughing in the tub, Charles breaks the surface of the warm water with a hand, reaching out to Hank. Hank startles for a moment before grabbing him. The touch is welcome, if only to connect him with another human. Sleeping alone in the library after such violence has left Charles starving for human contact. The fear that Erik would come after him is baseless and stupid, but Charles remembers lying broken and helpless on the first floor of the Xavier mansion. He remembers gazing up through tears and fading vision to his attacker watching him from the banister on the second floor. He remembers being alone.

“Charles,” Hank whispers, although the tile of the bathroom makes him out louder than that. “Raven is calling the police. Please, tell us what happened before they arrive. Who did this to you?” 

A shadow lurks in the bathroom door, and Charles jumps, splashing water on Hank before he recognizes Raven. Her arms cross over her chest, already shutting out reason and any lie he might concoct. But what else can he say? He can’t admit there’s a crazy, wild man living in the woods who controls metal. Hank and Raven will believe him, mutants themselves, but the police? They might be of conservative character, given their rural location. Charles would chastise himself for assuming such a broad generalization, but he can’t be bothered right now. He’d rather protect Erik from more human interaction. 

“I… fell down some stairs…” 

Hank’s mouth drops open and his brows furrow, but he can’t get a word about before Raven sweeps into the room. 

“We don’t have any stairs here, Charles! Stop”—Raven’s hands fist in her hair for a harrowing moment before she releases the long, blonde locks—”Don’t lie. Not again. Tell us the truth.” 

“Sorry, it must have slipped my mind,” Charles slurs. “I’m a bit concussed at the moment, do excuse my blabbering.” 

Raven opens her mouth, teeth primed to tear him to pieces—he’d let her—but Hank pops up to block her view of him. 

“Let it go,” Hank begs while holding Raven back with both hands. “Go outside, wait for the police. Leave him be, for now.” 

Raven seals her mouth over a scream, but she does as Hank asks. Her voice floats back into the room, promising Charles that this isn’t over, but she leaves. A door bangs somewhere in the house, and then it’s quiet again. Hank sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair, and kneels beside the tub again. He picks up Charles’ abandoned hand without a moment of hesitation. Worry and low simmering anger typical of Hank brush against Charles’ tired mind. He doesn’t bother muting it, since Hank’s face only replicates those exact emotions. He frowns in sympathy, but his eyes are stormy just as Raven’s had been. 

“What happened?” 

Charles sighs, shifts in the bath, and reclaims his hand. His thumb and middle finger spread out and touch the outside corners of his eyes.  He can’t stand to look at Hank and see the same expression from two years ago. Hank and Raven had stood over him in his hospital bed, once the doctors had weaned him off a steady supply of morphine and whatever they’d pumped into him. Together, the two of them had battered him with questions about the attack, the attacker himself, and the mysterious circumstances. Charles dreads that happening again and squeezes his eyes shut under the cover of his hand. They’d finally gotten back to trusting him to be alone again, finally given the reigns of his life back. It’s Charles’ turn for a taste of anger, and it circles viciously in his stomach like a whirlpool. He won’t give up his hard earned freedom. Not again. 

He begins quietly. “I was out gardening before the rain. I thought I heard someone scream in the woods, and I went to check.” Charles shutters in the water and **begs** Hank to buy his lie, or at least agree with him and lie to Raven. “It was a couple of wild hogs. I turned my back on them for a second, and well…” He gestures to the rest of him with the hand he’d left submerged in the bath. “Here I am.” 

Hank remains silent, stewing over the story Charles wove for him. Shifting on the tile floor, Hank sighs after a moment and speaks again. “Is that what happened?” 

Charles’ lower lip quivers in a moment of weakness, but he swallows and nods rather than risk his fragile voice. Hank grabs his wrist to drag his hand away from his eyes. Charles sucks in a breath through his nose before peeling both eyes open. The left still aches, thrumming along with his heartbeat. His jaw still pulses where Erik had punched him. Hank’s blue eyes, schoolboy eyes wide and trusting, shake as they stare at him, waiting for an answer. Those eyes drop to the marks on Charles’ neck, where Charles can sometimes still feel Erik’s hands, but Hank says nothing. Hank says nothing about how some wild hogs could put finger marks on him. 

“Yes,” Charles whispers back with only a slight break in his voice. “That’s what happened.” 

Sucking in his lips, Hank nods and releases his hand. He stands and exits the room without another word or a glance back. Charles’ hand once more slips beneath the water, and he stares at them while they sit uselessly in his lap. His gaze wavers and moves, unbidden, to the scars where doctors had cut his flesh and bolted metal to his bones and dug screws into him. Both hands shakes as he reaches to the scars and rubs circles around them. He barely feels the touch at all, but he bottles any panic he feels. One crisis at a time. 

 

 

The police accept his story of wild hogs with much less suspicion than Hank and Raven had. They build upon his tale, explaining the habits and attack patterns of previous hog attacks they’d responded to. Charles bites his lip when they congratulate him on avoiding any gouging wounds, which he could have died from giving the time between the attack and when he’d been found. Charles nods good-naturedly under the scrutinizing gazes of his family and promises the police as well as animal control that he’ll be more careful in the future. Dealing with law enforcement is the easiest part of dealing with this whole mess. Reports made and insurance claims filed, Charles now has to deal with Hank and Raven. 

Hank and Raven both miss work the rest of the week. Charles wilts under their care, stubborn and snapping at every offered hand.  Raven and Hank fall into their roles as caregivers without missing a beat. Charles bites his lip and curses at how easily everything had backslid to this. He feels as if he’s time traveled to the past, when his leg injuries had been fresh. This time, though, he’s only kept to bed the first two days after the encounter with Erik. At the third day, the children crowd into his bedroom with Raven at their backs. Charles almost whispers a prayer of thanks that Jean isn’t among them. He doubts he could hide the truth from her. 

Kurt and Sean try to pile on the bed with him, but Raven is at their arms in an instance, pulling them back. 

“It’s all right,” Charles assures everyone. Scott freezes where he is, hands raised as if to fight. Charles shakes his head and urges Kurt and Sean back to him. “Raven, a moment, please? They just want to make sure I’m okay.” 

Raven’s face twists like she’d licked a lemon. But Charles begs her with a look he knows she can’t deny. She grumbles something he doesn’t catch, but she leaves them all the same. Once the door shuts, everyone huddles close to be near him. Kurt reaches for the bruise on his jaw, but Charles cocks his head away. Kurt flinches and lowers both his hand and his head, bashful with shame. Once Charles reassures Kurt with a gentle hand on his arm, though, everyone bursts into questions and conversation.

“Jeez, Charles, what happened?” 

“Did you get in a fight? Someone totally destroyed you.” 

“Does it hurt much?” 

“What about your garden?” 

They all talk over each other, especially Angel and Scott over Scott’s fighting comment. Sean remains shy and quiet, except for his question about Charles’ garden outside. The rain had apparently done a number on it, and some of the plants are ruined. Charles shrugs and says something forgettable, but it brings a soft grin to Sean’s face. Their emotions and lightning fast minds fill the sore spots in Charles’ heart. He smiles and glows under their energy, just happy to be treated like an adult again. 

“Everything will be all right,” Charles says with a happy sigh. His gaze lingers on every child in the room before he speaks again. “Can you keep a secret?” 

Five pairs of eyes widen—he assumes Scott’s do behind his glasses—and they all lean in with the promise of gossip. Charles makes sure Raven and Hank are far away, on the other side of the house, before he divulges what he knows. 

“I met the creature.” 

Charles sits back and basks in their disbelief and awe. They’re all quick to accept what he’s said, except Scott. But Scott doesn’t offer anything more than a scoff and arms crossed over his chest as a form of doubt. Charles smiles at him and shrugs. 

“Were you scared?” 

“What was it like?” 

“Was it scary?” 

“Did it do this to you?” Ororo asks over everyone. 

Her face is shadowed by the same storm clouds she can fall forth. It’s an expression Charles has never seen on someone so young. Ororo thins her mouth into an angry line, holding back more words from escaping. The other children glance between her and Charles. She’d spoken so coldly, and they’re confused by the tension building in the room.  A charge lingers along Charles’ skin, a warning. He sits up straighter in alarm, worried she’ll somehow find Erik and harm him.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Charles defends. “He wasn’t aware of what he was doing. He didn’t mean to—” 

“He?” She asks with narrow eyes.

Caught in a web of his own lies and withheld information, Charles’ teeth click when he snaps his mouth shut. Around him, the other children bite their lips while looking to him for answers. The longer he dailies, the tighter Ororo’s face twists. Her anger and rush for vengeance blows over Charles like a desert wind. He faces the wind, though, because no one can find out the truth. Perhaps in time, but not now. He can’t have Erik hurting anyone else or anyone hurting Erik. He owes the poor man nothing, but one can only suffer so much violence. 

Charles sighs and spins the web of lies even larger. “It. The creature. I… encroached on its territory, and it defended itself. Honestly, it would have done worse. I don’t look that bad, do I?” 

He flashes a smile that used to dash anyone he turned it on. Kurt and Angel are quick to laugh again. Sean smiles down at the blankets covering Charles’ legs. It comforts them, even softening Ororo’s hard eyes. But she isn’t completely satisfied. She shares that with Raven, Charles realizes. She hadn’t bought his story, either, although she’d settled for it. Speaking of his dearest sister, Raven re-enters the room to usher the children back outside. Scott and Ororo share a look before following the sweep of Raven’s arm towards the front door. Angel drags Sean and Kurt by the hems of their t-shirts to get them off Charles’ bed. He waves goodbye and relaxes against the headboard, listening as their voices grow quieter with the distance. 

Raven and Hank don’t immediately reappear, although he feels their upset thoughts and their worry. Charles sighs and enjoys the silence while he can, before the crush of isolation forces him to seek them out. Seeing the kids has energized him, though, and his mind drifts to his garden. He hopes the damage isn’t too extensive, that all the work he’d put in hasn’t been for nothing. Charles’ hands twitch in his lap, and he rubs the calluses on his fingertips together. Swallowing, Charles lifts a hand to graze the purple bruises on his neck. Erik had left such devastating marks on him. Charles’ throat shutters with a deep breath, and he drops his hand back to his lap. It had been so difficult to convince everyone the bruises weren’t hand marks. 

Unable to stop his brain from thinking about Erik, Charles’ mind fans out. He races through the forest to find Erik. He doesn’t touch, won’t dare, but he lingers in the dark corners of the bunker. Erik is there, pacing the floor with hands twisted in his dirty hair. He mumbles things under his breath, nothing that Charles can make out. The bear is absent, but Charles doubts Erik would let it roam too far away. Erik freezes in the bunker, breath ragged, and tips his head back in a lonely cry. It lacks any anger or madness, unlike when he’d forced Charles to the ground and spit questions at him. He groans to the concrete ceiling like a dying man, sorrowful and drawn out. Charles slips from the bunker just as Erik rolls up on the floor and fists his hands in his hair again. 

When Charles opens his eyes in his bedroom, to the sound of Hank bringing in lunch, there are tears on his face. 

 

 

It takes a full day of begging, along with a few threats, to convince Raven to let him back outside. Charles itches to return to his routine once a doctor clears him from bed rest and assures him that his legs are fine. Feeling had returned to mostly normal after the children had visited him. With his legs back to their semi-functional state, Charles is eager for everything else to normalize. And that includes Raven and Hank returning to work and not hovering over him. There’s nowhere for him to go to escape them, so he must assure them he’s fit for combat again. 

The state of chaos and casualty in the garden is about what Charles expects. The rain had washed out a corner of the vegetable patch. Also the shade screen he’d stretched above the seedling tomato plants had collapsed somehow, smothering the emerging stalks below it. Some might look at the garden as a total loss, a complete do-over. However, Charles rolls up his sleeves, kneels in the earth, and simply fixes what he can. Logan had brought him some replacement specimens, probably as a get-well gift, and he intends to use them. 

Charles’ new cane rests beside his knees as he works. He tries not to think about what had happened to the other one or where it is now. Normally, he abandons the damn thing beside his towel and water bottle on the porch, but Raven had glared at him until he’d brought it with him. He glances at it every so often, and his swirling thoughts slow his work. But getting back to normal is more important to him right now than processing what had happened. He’ll probably never see Erik again anyway. 

He finishes fixing his little line of tomato plants before the silence of the woods gets to him. This tension in the air, the atmosphere forcing everything to stillness, is all too familiar. Charles’ gaze penetrates through his curtain of hair, seeking out the tree line. A familiar shadow lurks there. The metal bear’s triangular head pokes out of the tall grass marking the boundary between the yard and the forest. If Charles closes his eyes and listens hard enough, he can make out the groan of metal joints. He’d never heard it in the woods before, until now. Now, he knows what to listen for. 

Bending back, Charles tries to stretch the ache out of his sore spine. Unsuccessful, he squeezes the handle of his trowel for a moment before setting it aside. He thinks to keep it in hand, to use it to defend himself if the bear charges, but what good could it do? Erik had nearly killed him with his only his hands; surely his metal beast could do the same, strung on its puppet strings. Charles shifts his weight on his calves, feeling a new ache burn there. A hot soak later will fix him right up, but he has to survive this little encounter, first. 

“Can I help you?” He calls out to the bear. “I’m not sure if Erik can hear me through you, but if so, I don’t want any trouble.” 

The bear’s form shakes in the bushes, pieces of itself sagging before rearranging. Charles watches the process from a neutral standpoint, fascinated with Erik’s mutation and his subtle control over it. He’d manifested this creature from scrap metal while out of his mind. Charles wonders with a light heart what Erik is capable of, now that some of his pieces have been put back together. He’d probably even risk another strangulation just to talk to him. Charles’ throat rolls through the healing bruise when he swallows, and he scolds himself for such a foolish thought. 

In the shade, the bear shivers and takes small steps out of the forest. If metal could do something bashfully, Erik’s beast has accomplished just that. The bear scratches at the trimmed grass, with its head down and to the side, as if to glance at Charles in its peripheral vision. Charles bites back a smile, in case Erik can somehow see it, and shuffles in his kneeling position. His legs beg him to stand or at least sit on his ass, but Charles doesn’t dare move with his present company. Although, the longer the bear takes to approach him, the thinner Charles’ nerves and patience wear. 

Just as Charles opens his mouth to try and coax the bear closer, the thing—or rather Erik—finally gathers its courage and closes the distance between them. The air above the bear shivers in the heat, and Charles resists the urge to lean away from it. There’s no shade here, and he’ll just cook faster sitting next to it. The metal bear shivers like a horse driving away flies and begins to rearrange itself again. Sheet metal squeaks and dents as the panels shift, and the bear loses its familiar, hunched shape for a moment. It’s open to the core, where some of the metal isn’t rusted, before it drops something. 

A staff of wood rolls out of the bear and knocks softly against Charles’ knees. 

Charles’ mouth gapes at the staff. He’s thoroughly distracted by it and what it means long enough that the bear assumes its customary shape and begins to back away. 

“Wait, wait! Is this…” Charles’ fingers brush the smooth wood while his other hand reaches for the bear. “Erik, did you make this for me?” 

A shock wave rolls through the beast before it bounds back into the woods. Birds squawk and the tops of the trees jerk hard as it flees the yard. Eventually, the forest calms again, and living things feel safe enough to stir. The fingers on Charles’ outstretched hand curl slowly around empty air, and he eventually drops the hand to his lap. The other lingers on the fine grain of the staff, idly petting it. Charles waits in silence, hoping against hope that the puppet master himself might show up. But he knows it’s a foolish wish. Sighing with a tiny smirk on his lips, Charles lifts the new cane in his hand and draws himself to his feet. 

The staff itself is unassuming, neither decorated nor ornate. However, as Charles’ fingers trace its surface, he doesn’t detect any signs of machining or tools. Erik could have perhaps just found a twig suitable enough for a walking stick, but Charles seriously doubts it. The bark has been stripped cleanly off, and when he holds the staff at eye level, it lacks a noticeable curve. Charles drags his hands along the wood long enough for his mind to wander into lewd thoughts. He embarrasses himself by sputtering and almost dropping the thing, looking around to make sure no one saw. Charles clears his throat, ignores the heat in his cheeks, and finally seeks shelter away from the sun.


	6. Visitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slow chapter. It'll be slow right up until it's not. Just like any decent suspense film. Thanks to everyone for the stellar response.

Charles isn’t surprised by the metal bear’s presence in the garden after that. It doesn’t often skirt past the tree line, but even when it does, Charles leaves it alone. He’s still in the dark about exactly how much information it can gather for Erik. He’d love to question Erik and explore his mutation, but Erik remains distant. Charles never loses track of him: Erik’s mind a pulsing quasar and Charles the telescope keeping an eye out from afar. Charles observes him wandering the forest, but he never strays near the house or the road. It’s a shame, really.

So instead, Charles mumbles to the bear when it comes out. If Erik can hear him, perhaps his babbling will draw him out. Erik’s movements and thoughts always settle when the bear is here. The logic part of Charles chalks that up to Erik refining his control over the bear and ridding himself of any other stimulus. The romantic in Charles, equally the size of his logic self, imagines the wild man seeks out his presence through the beast. Charles would never voice either of those thoughts, though, especially not to Erik.

On a morning when Charles finds his garden ruined a second time, though, he almost jumps to the conclusion that Erik had a hand in the plot. The plants are torn up—even his precious watermelon, the poor thing—and the mounds he’d built up for lettuce heads are crisscrossed with gashes and mole burrows. The burrows are the only things that keep Charles’ temper under wraps. Otherwise, he’d been ready to let the metal bear have it next time he saw it. Moles along with some other woodland creature have dug up his garden, not Erik. He has enough furious energy to fix some of the damage, but he gives up after a few hours when he can’t see straight.

The night following Charles’ angry day in the dirt, he awakens at some ungodly hour to the blinding pulse of Erik’s mind. And it’s close. Charles tangles himself in his blankets, trying to kick them off in his haste. Wood staff in his hand faster than he can think, Charles hobbles from his bedroom in his pajamas, desperate to catch a sight of Erik. He’s in the garden, calm and focused on a task. Charles’ palm sweats where he grips the end of his new cane tightly, and he bites his lip trying to decide what to do. Erik can obviously sense the pins and rods in his legs, but there’s plenty of metal in the library.

Charles chances it on the hopes that the metal in his body will blend in with objects in the library. Erik might not even notice him, considering how focused he is outside. Charles pads quietly and without his usual hobble to the library, again thankful that the house lacks stairs. He’d neglected to draw the library’s curtains across the sliding door before bed. That would rattle Charles’ nerves, the thought of someone looking in from the outside, if it weren’t for the constant, watchful presence of the bear. Charles lingers in the library’s shadows as he gazes through the patio door, breath held tight.

Erik stands with his legs locked in the moonlight. Only his profile is visible from this position. The soft light cuts his face in sharp shadows and enhances the disarray of his hair and beard. He’s changed his clothes since their encounter, although Charles doesn’t think he looks much better. Skin and bones under his clothes, Erik seems tethered to the earth by sheer will, rather than with a desire to live. Charles’ heart and throat burn with something unspoken. Erik might see it as pity or charity, but Charles wants nothing more than to give Erik anything he needs. Now is not the time, though.

Erik’s hands, flexed out like claws, tug on invisible strings without any actual movement. His eyes narrow in the low light before closing all together. Charles’ drinks in the sight of this magic happening, before movement on the ground catches his eye. A metal line glints in the moonlight, along with thin, metal poles sinking into the ground. Erik wraps a line around the remains of Charles’ ruined garden, stringing little bells along the line as he goes. Once the circle—or rectangle, rather—is joined together, the metal line sags between the poles. The bells sparkle in the night, while the line itself almost disappears. Erik’s eyes open at once. He rolls his shoulders and kneels down to inspect his effort.

Charles breathes shallowly in the darkness of the library, a hand cupped over his mouth to stifle himself. There are walls and a glass door separating them, but Charles shivers at the thought that Erik might hear him. Surely the wild man would think poorly of him, ogling him from the shadows. Charles squeezes his hand so tightly around his cane that the wood bites into the skin of his palm. He can’t relax, though, not while watching Erik use his mutation so brilliantly. Charles’ world narrows down to this shadowed moment between them, and he couldn’t look away if he tried.

Erik frowns at the garden for a harrowing moment. His gaze darts from plant to plant. Then, he drops to all fours, striking out with one hand between two tomato plants. Charles edges closer to the door to see what’s happened. Erik removes his hand, a snail crawling along his palm, and pops back to his feet. Charles has to curb his gut reaction to warn Erik about handling a snail without gloves, not knowing what it’s been digging into. He’s survived this long without access to healthcare or basic hygiene, though, so Charles bottles it for another time. Erik doesn’t dwell for much longer in the open. He casts a flitting glance at the house before melting into the woods. Charles dumps himself in a plush recliner until his heart calms down and his palms stop sweating. Sleep doesn’t come easily for the rest of the night.

  
  


 

Rain greets Charles for two mornings in a row after that night in the moonlight with Erik. At first, Charles huffs and glares at the sky, desperately wanting to tend to his third batch of plants. However, as the third day rolls around, the clouds only grow more stubborn and dig their heals in. Charles throws his hands up to mother nature and gives in for the time being. He tries to make the most out of the downtime, though. Charles has searched for other activities to keep him busy in the off-season. So with knitting needles and yarn in his arms, he plops down in a rocking chair on the porch and sets about casting the yarn on. It takes him a few tries, but there’s no one around to watch him struggle.

Hank and Raven have since returned to their jobs after his injuries, and the children don’t wander onto his property in the monsoon. Charles would appreciate their company, their whip-quick minds energizing his own. But solitude is nice, too, especially when he curses every time he finishes a row with dropped stitches. He could rope Raven into this and just have her teach him crochet, but that would open a different can of worms. She’d want to know why he wanted to learn, what “suddenly” brought this all on.

It had started out innocently, but now he can’t help but think of Erik in the cold and wet. Not that he’s making anything for Erik, even though he fumbles with the needles with a blush on his face. Raven, and even Hank, would just point out to him that it’d be easier to just  **buy** clothes for Erik, if he wanted to go that far. He’d have to explain who Erik is, first. Charles grumbles to himself and shakes his head. There’s no point in dwelling on hypotheticals. Charles lowers his cramping hands to his lap, being careful not to tangle the yarn again. He sags into the rocker and shifts his weight enough to send it rolling back and forth.

Previously unknown, sunken areas of the yard collect the rain as it continues to fall. At points, it rains so heavily Charles can barely see the trees. Other times, he only realizes it’s raining by the roar of drops hitting leaves in the forest. The drip, tap of the rain on the roof lulls him into a light doze. He shouldn’t sleep in a chair like this, according to his doctor. Charles doesn’t close his eyes for long. Reaching out with his power, he senses where Logan, the children, and even Erik are.

Logan is out in his field for some reason. Charles hopes there’s no flooding or eroding of his land. Charles had worried about a growing pool near his garden, but he’d awoken on the second day to find a drainage ditch carved into the soil, leading away from both garden and house. Charles had whispered his thanks to the forest, where he knew Erik was somewhere. Now, Charles murmurs a hope for good fortune for his neighbor. The children must be at home, because their minds are so far from him and each other. They should be all right, Charles assumes, with family to look after them and technology to entertain them.

Erik, on the other hand, he hardly feels at all. Charles opens his eyes, staring without focus into the rain, and lifts a hand to his temple. Still, even with the practiced gesture, Erik is difficult to read. The typical pulse of Erik’s mind is sorely absent, replaced with sluggishness and….loneliness. Charles’ hand falls with a smack into his lap. The back of the chair digs into his skull as he tilts his head up, staring mournfully at the ceiling and grey sky. There’s so much he could do for Erik, so much he has to give. Charles is left grasping at straws as he drowns in this sea of indecision and unknown.

Upset, Charles transfers his knitting project to the rocking chair as he stands. He hopes to distract himself with a sandwich, tea at the minimum. Thankfully, the kitchen lies just inside. It’s easy to pile deli meat—the good ham he hides from Hank, least his friend eat it all—and whatever else he wants onto some bread. Charles stops only when two sandwiches overflow with all the fixings. He rips a paper towel off the roll as a last thought, eyeing the spicy mustard already creeping over the edge of a cheese slice. He hobbles back to the porch to leave his plate and napkin on a side table, freeing his hands to return for some tea. Mixing tea and milk on automatic to his taste, Charles finally returns to his chair with a steaming cup in hand.

The metal bear lingers near the waterlogged grass around his garden.

Charles pauses beside the arm of his chair, with knees aching from his trips for food and from the humidity of the rain. The rusty form outside shivers, pieces shifting along its surface, and it steps forward. Charles stumbles in his haste to find a spot on the tiny table for his tea. Hands free, he eases down with an arm ready to catch himself, down to the dry porch. He must look like an old man kneeling to pick something up to the bear, but Charles’ pride doesn’t spare a moment for that. By the time he’s settled on the edge of the stairs, the bear has waddled forward and drips on the ground shaded from sun and rain by the roof. Unafraid, Charles’ fingers brush across a wet plate where the bear’s brow would be, were it real. It ignores the touch, though, and points its snout at Charles’ knees, where scars linger under his slacks.

“Is that how you know where I am, hmm?” Charles asks with a cock of his head, mimicking the beast. “Makes sense, really.”

Charles takes care not to catch his fingers on any sharp edges as his hands drift over the bear’s head. Some of the plates and panels shift under his touch, and Charles smiles at their shyness. He stops for a moment, hands hovering over the plates, until the bear squeaks and groans while lifting its head to find him again. It noses along the raised bone of his shin while plates buff against his hands. Charles bites back a laugh when a few come loose from the bear’s hunched back and jostle for position for his caress. He’d have the beast coming apart at the seams, if he wanted such a thing.

Instead, Charles urges the pieces back to where they belong. He gathers his weak legs under him and hauls himself back up with the help of his wooden staff. The bear follows the sway of his legs and knees as he moves, draw in by the metal imbedded inside him. Charles offers the curious thing a soft, delicate sort of smile before turning his eyes to the forest. The tops of the trees shake in waves as wind and rain roll over them. Thankfully, this side of the house is in the lee of the storm, so Charles’ chair and sandwiches remain dry.

“Oh,” Charles murmurs with eyes widening at the trees. He glances at the bear and says to himself, “I wonder…”

His free hand strays to the sandwiches he’d made, but he flinches away at the last moment.

“Mmm, perhaps not the ham. If Erik keeps kosher…”

The thought will seem ridiculous in hindsight: how a man living in the wild with his mind missing might keep kosher, but Charles doesn’t think about that now.

“Please, wait here.” Charles holds a hand up, palm out, at the bear as it watches him. “I’ll be right back.”

Before he’d spotted the bear loitering in the garden, Charles’ strength had waned. He’d wanted nothing more than to sit and enjoy a bite of food and tea. A second wind buffs his sails and urges him back to the kitchen with an extra bit of excitement in his hobble. He whips together another sandwich—the deli chicken, fresh and unopened—faster than even his two still waiting on the porch. Charles yanks open a drawer, searching for the nice, cloth napkins. Plastic cooking spoons and spatulas roll around in the first one he opens. A second one, accompanied with a grumble, reveals the napkins. Charles snaps one out with a flick of his wrist and safely ties the ends around the sandwich. In no time, he exits onto the porch to find the metal bear sitting in the rain.

“Here,” he says with a jerk of his hand holding the bundle. He’s oddly breathless and flushed. “Take this to Erik. I hope he likes chicken and baby swiss.”

The beast stands on its four, stumpy legs, but it doesn’t come closer. Smiling with a sigh, Charles watches his feet as he descends the stone steps to the ground. He holds the bundle out again, this time bumping it against the bear’s snout. It prods the napkin, but otherwise doesn’t move to take it. Charles hums and stares at the bear for a moment. Its pieces never stop shifting, and Charles glances at his staff as his mind wanders. If only he could coax the bear to open the same way when it had delivered his staff. Charles cranes his neck in search of a better solution.

A panel on the bear’s back shifts at that moment, revealing a crevice underneath. Charles flings his hand out without thinking and paws at the moving surface. The panels bunch up under his touch, arching up to reach him. Charles bites back the soft smile he’d given the beast earlier. Shushing the bear and brushing the plates aside, Charles nestles the napkin-wrapped sandwich into the snug space. He hopes privately that the constantly shifting parts of the bear don’t crush it. The sandwich would still be edible, but the goal is to get it to Erik unscathed. Charles watches with a critical eye as the plates settle over the sandwich and cover it from the rain.

“Please, don’t smash that. If you can help it.”

Of course, the bear gives no indication that it understands. It backs away a few steps, rain hitting it full force now, and dashes away after a short pause. Charles likes to imagine that it gallops away with less gusto than it usually does. Charles stands on the damp ground until the creaks and groans of the bear’s joints fade into the forest. It doesn’t take long, especially with the rain picking up and filling the air with static. Satisfied, Charles climbs the three steps back to the porch and reclaims his chair. His tea has gone cold. And he doesn’t see the bear or Erik for the rest of the day.

  
  


 

The sun shines through the light drizzle on the fourth day of storms. Just enough of the sun peeks out to turn each fleeting drop into a diamond. The humidity ratchets up a notch until Charles sweats through his shirt and shorts. He’s abandoned his little knitting project today, just to escape the cling of yarn on his skin. He’s on the porch again, still piled into the rocking chair, although this time a towel protects him from sticking to the wood. He’d also dragged over the pedestal fan away from its spot by his desk. It oscillates back and forth, tossing his hair every time it turns around again. The book he’d snatched from his desk lies closed with a finger between two pages to mark his place. He’d only meant to tilt his head back and close his eyes for a moment. But in the growing warmth and heaviness after four days of rain, Charles finds himself nodding off.

He can’t pinpoint exactly what stirs him awake. It’s the same as when he blinks his eyes open in the middle of the night, without a sound or light to disturb him. Charles stares without focus at the trees. Their trunks and canopies blur into a Monet painting before he blinks hard to set his eyes straight. Even in focus now, his eyes don’t quite catch the sight of Erik watching him from the forest for a few seconds. The gentle rock he’d set himself at with the nudge of a foot slows the longer they maintain eye contact. Erik lifts his head slightly in the shade and steps out, into the light of the yard.

Charles holds still. He refuses to tense up, but the healing bruises on his body seem to twist and ache at the sight of Erik. Charles steadies his breathing and lowers his shoulders. He blinks and watches calmly while Erik crosses the yard, headed straight towards him. Erik doesn’t spare a glance at the garden or anything else. He focuses those unflinching, gray eyes on Charles without hesitation. Charles swallows and picks at a rough spot on the arm of his rocker. He remembers with a flush at that moment, when Erik is close enough for him to see thin lines at the corners of his eyes, that the first two buttons on his shirt are undone. Charles’ fingers twitch to close them, but to move now might scare Erik away. And he doesn’t want that.

When Erik finally stops with a squelch as his naked feet sink in the mud, Charles clears his throat and mumbles, “Good morning.”

A new gust of wind curls over the roof of the house and spills into the yard. It rakes back Erik’s hair from his forehead, and he squints through the breeze. Charles’ back twinges from keeping still for so long, so he kicks off and sends the chair rocking again. Erik blinks, but he doesn’t react otherwise to the chair. Charles offers him a smile, but none is given in return. A shiver runs through Erik’s body, and he finally turns his piercing gaze away. Charles follows the trail of his eyes down to his hand, where Erik clutches the napkin he’d parted with yesterday. Interest and excitement mounting, Charles sits up straighter in the chair.

“I hope the sandwich made it in once piece. Or that you got to eat it at all…”

His voice startles Erik. He turns wide eyes back on Charles, and his mouth twitches under the cover of his facial hair. Erik still has the same clothes on from the time Charles had seen him standing in the moonlight, stringing a protective line around the garden. The clothes are soiled and old, holes revealing the angular knobs of Erik’s knees. His shins and feet are coated in mud. Charles’ gaze travels up, only to see that Erik’s shirt doesn’t fair much better. The seams are popped between sleeve and shoulder, and a few buttons are missing on the front. Erik lifts the hand clutching the napkin, though, and Charles’ silent exploration ends.

“Oh,” Charles utters quietly.

Charles stands from the chair, ignoring Erik’s subtle flinch, and hobbles down the steps. The drizzle continues the same as before Erik had appeared. Charles doesn’t think twice about stepping past the flat stone sunk into the earth in front of the stairs and walking through the mud and grass. Erik watches him with deep lines wrinkling his brow. He doesn’t back away from Charles, though. Instead, he stares without shame at Charles’ face as his mind loudly catalogs everything about Charles: from his shirt going damp from the rain to the trace hairs stuck to his moist skin. And everything in between.

Biting back a blush and bashful smile, Charles reaches to take the napkin back. A delicate sound, probably not meant to be heard, escapes Erik’s throat. His hand jerks away, but Charles doesn’t let go, doesn’t back away. They’re connected via the napkin while Erik’s gaze drifts over the healing scrapes and bruises on his face, particularly where Erik had punched him. Charles’ breath, already coming out through his teeth, turns ragged when Erik raises his free hand to said bruise. Charles flinches away, and another soft sound rumbles from Erik’s throat, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers ghost along the yellowing outline of the bruise, following Charles’ jaw and up to his cheek. Charles holds his breath, watching Erik watch him.

“Mmm,” Erik mumbles, licking his thin lips after a few tries to speaks. “I’m… sorry.”

Charles startles out of his trace, finally blinking and inhaling in a barely-controlled gasp.

“It’s quite all right.” Erik’s fingers bump against his cheek as he speaks, as if Erik had forgotten to move his hand away. Charles isn’t even sure what Erik’s apologizing for. Their first encounter wasn’t exactly stellar. It’s not worth it to ask for an explanation, though. Charles accepts it at face value. “No hard done. Permanently, anyway.”

That quip earns Charles a wiggle of Erik’s mouth, still blanketed by his overgrown beard. It’s difficult not to stare at it, what with their height difference putting the damn thing at eye level. What’s easy is to allow his eyes to lose focus and slip along the fringes of Erik’s mind. The raw anger and hunger he’d felt before meeting Erik—before helping him—has vanished, replaced by sadness and curiosity. Charles listens in as Erik thinks about leaving, about returning to the concrete room where there’s nothing but silence. And memories.

Charles blinks his eyes back to focus and zeroes in on a bit of twig stuck in Erik’s beard. He smiles against the gentle pressure of Erik’s fingers on his cheek. Charles brushes the hand away with his own, biting back a smile when Erik’s head jerks back at the touch. With his still free hand, Charles delicately plucks out the debris he’d seen earlier and asks, “Would you like to stay for lunch? Or lunch and dinner?”

Erik glances at the twig Charles twists between his fingers. His sight trembles for a moment, darting around Charles’ face and chest, before Erik dips his chin to stare at their hands. Charles lifts an eyebrow at him and follows suit. Where Charles’ hand is pale, clean, with neatly trimmed nails, Erik’s is covered in dirt and scratches. The nails on every finger are either bitten to the quick or torn raggedly. Old scars crisscross the base of Erik’s thumb and continue throughout his hand, hidden beneath dirt.

“How long have you been alone?” Charles whispers at their hands, his index finger twitching as if to touch Erik.

Erik sucks a breath in through his nose, but Charles doesn’t lift his eyes to witness Erik’s expression. Instead, Charles’ gaze is riveted to their hands gripping the napkin tightly between them. Erik’s finger spasm before he reels in the cloth separating them, hand dancing across the cotton like a spider. He clutches at Charles’ steady grip, not quite threading their fingers together. Callouses honed by toil and suffering scratch the much softer skin of Charles’ hand. It’s unlike anything Charles is used to, but he doesn’t turn Erik’s touch away. When he does finally look up, though, Charles finds their faces rather close. It would be pleasant, if not for the wet dog smell currently gagging him.

If Erik notices the wobble of Charles’ chin as he bites back nausea, he doesn’t say. Erik does step back into the drizzle, though, releasing the napkin. A cloud had passed in front of the sun during their moment, darkening the yard. Light returns overhead, and it filters through the light rain to give Erik’s hair a red glow. Charles fists the napkin in his hand. It’s unfair that as wild and unkempt as Erik is, Charles can still suss out the handsome face under what must be years of anguish. His stomach sours again at the thought of Erik returning to the forest.

“Too long,” Erik replies.


	7. An Exorcism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late yet again because I hit a roadblock in the last few chapters. Writing the climax of the story was difficult OTL The deed is done, though. Hope you guys like Charles crying as much as I do.

Hank is understandably upset when he comes home to find a stranger bathing in the bathroom closest to his and Raven’s bedroom. He’s especially upset when he takes in Charles’ tired body resting in a chair beside said stranger, as if this were a typical thing. While Charles introduces his new friend, Erik, Hank absorbs the man’s untamed hair and beard and simply tunes Charles out. Charles argues against it, but Hank knows he has an affinity for strays. Hank rubs at the indents on his nose from his glasses and orders his brother-in-law from the room. He can gather the whole story, elaborate as it probably is, from Charles later. For now, he needs to work on getting…. Erik presentable, before Raven comes home. 

Charles shuffles from the room, although he does so reluctantly. He and Erik had not exchanged many words during their time together, but he doesn’t want to leave the poor man alone. Charles closes his eyes in sympathy at the startled look Erik throws him as he leaves. Hank is probably the best person to deal with this, given that he’d basically nannied Charles after his hospital discharge. Charles doesn’t often spare a thought to what could have happened to him, if Hank hadn’t been there to poke him along the road to recovery. A splash and grumble filter through the bathroom door as Charles pulls it shut. Hank murmurs something, probably soothing and gentle, and Erik’s upset noises stop. Charles lingers for a moment more before peeling his aching back off the door. He won’t go far, in case either man needs him. 

It’s only about an hour later, an hour spent trying to read and not even turning a page, when Hank does seek him out. He’s soaked and red faced, looking to be one ill spoken word away from showing his blue side. His glasses are missing. There’s shaving cream in his eyebrows.

“Would you **please** ,” Hank murmurs through his teeth, “return to our guest and finish helping him?” 

Charles almost tosses his book across the desk in his haste to get up. He scrambles past Hank, past his heavy breathing and fisted hands, and dives for the bathroom. It’s humid even in the hallway, but Charles ignores that. His expectations for Erik are wild, ranging from the man crouching in the corner like a frightened animal to him having already escaped the bathroom. It’s easy enough to sweep his mind into said bathroom to discard that idea. At least Erik is still where Hank had left him, although his mind buzzes with irritation. When Charles peeks around the corner, what he finds doesn’t meet anything he’d imagined. 

Dressed in a pair of borrowed sweat pants courtesy of Hank, Erik sits straight up in a chair in front of the tub. He’s infinitely cleaner than when Charles had sat through his first bath, when Hank had interrupted the second. Somehow, Hank had earned enough trust for Erik to allow a haircut. It’s a smart cut on him, almost military. A bit too short for Charles, as it emphasizes Erik’s large forehead, but he holds his tongue. It’s almost like **this** Erik is fresh and new, a different Erik than the one who had stepped out of the woods hours ago. 

The only thing that remains of that former Erik is his beard. It’s lost its length, courtesy of a pair of clippers, but stubble long enough to shave lingers. But at least it’s clean. Charles thanks Hank for that as he leans his staff in the corner. Erik watches him without an expression, and the annoyance that had bubbled on the surface of his mind calms. Charles can’t stare at those expressive eyes for long, though, feeling them decrypt every secret somehow from his face alone. Charles’ wandering gaze lands on the abandoned shaving kit near the sink, straight razor glinting in the light. 

“Oh, Hank,” Charles sighs with a smile. “He gave it a try, I see.” 

Erik glances at the kit, too, before nodding. 

“What went wrong?” Charles snatches the back of the chair in front of Erik and pulls it away, sitting in it with more grace than he thought possible. “I suppose you didn’t trust him enough for this?” 

Erik gives him nothing but the same neutral stare that pins him in place. 

Charles’ hands twitch for something to do, and he rubs the softs hairs on his arm. “To be honest, my friend, I’m not exactly a pro with a straight razor. Although…” Charles cranes his head back to eye the metal of the blade. “Shouldn’t you be able to do this yourself? What with your mutation and all.” 

Charles barely has the words out of his mouth before Erik acts. His hands remain fisted in his lap, but he flicks an index finger out at the sink. The blade rises without hesitation and bobs in the air towards Charles. Erik holds it in the air without a tremble, and Charles glances from it to him. He opens his hand to grab it, but Erik releases his hold on the blade before Charles reaches for it. The handle plops with a soft sound into his palm. Normally, Charles would shy away from someone brandishing a sharp edge so brazenly. But Erik’s phenomenal control keeps Charles cool. 

“All right,” Charles murmurs. 

He twists around, searching for something to hone the blade on. The handle rattles in his grasp, a subtle vibration, and Charles snaps his head down to see what’s happening. 

“Oh,” Charles gasps for what seems like the hundredth time. He can’t help but be in awe of Erik’s mutation, though. 

Any imperfection on the blade, any scratch or dent in it, smoothes out. The desire to hold the blade at eye level seizes Charles as Erik’s power washes over it. He resists, however, in case the unpredictable movement would somehow interrupt the man’s focus. Charles purses his lips over a smile and bets with himself that Erik can sharpen the blade, too. He wonders how deeply Erik’s control goes, if he can manipulate metal at the molecular level. He could literally have the perfect shave. 

Charles swallows any further compliments or admissions of awe when the razor’s handle goes still in his hand. Charles glances up at Erik through the wave of his own hair, the exchange of stares carrying a strange heaviness now. At first, Erik seems cool and neutral as always. However, the longer Charles watches him, the more obvious a slight flush on Erik’s high cheeks becomes. At least Charles isn’t the only one rattled by the show of power. Clearing his throat, Charles stands on shaky legs and angles the blade at the floor, away from either of them. 

“I suppose Hank got as far as moisturizing and oiling your face for this?” 

Erik hums in agreement, still watching him. His gaze has lost some of its barb, though, as if their exchange of heated glances has softened him. Charles exhales through his mouth and nods back. He swipes the towel Hank had obviously abandoned on the edge of the sink’s vanity and rolls it up. Erik leans his head forward without a request for Charles to tuck the folded thing under his neck. Then, he arches his neck back to expose every unruly inch of his throat. Charles isn’t quite behind him, yet, but he gets a perfect shot down the length of Erik’s body. 

“Right,” Charles rasps with the razor held aloft. “Please, forgive me if I nick you.” 

“You won’t.” 

Nervous energy bestows the slightest tremor to Charles’ hand. Erik’s mouth shifts under his trimmed moustache, lips flicking up briefly into a grin. From the sink, a metal bowl full of shaving cream and a brush rise up and float over to join them. Charles groans at the sight of it, having completely forgotten about it while flustered. Erik coughs quietly, perhaps covering a chuckle if the fireworks of glee going off in his mind are telling. Charles grumbles good-naturedly and searches for a place to set the razor down. Erik beats him to it, though, lifting the steel handle of the brush from the lather. He doesn’t even bother to turn his head as the brush covers his short hairs from the base of his jaw up to his ears. 

“Thank you.” 

This time, Erik does let a chuckle out. It’s a quiet thing, through his nose and without any scorn. His eyes twinkle at Charles one last time before they close. He waits, calm and still, for Charles to begin. Charles wipes his unoccupied hand on his pants. He knows he needs to pull Erik’s skin taut, so as to not skid the blade over said skin and cut him. Charles’ hand flinches away at the last moment from skimming Erik’s neck. He’s treading water through uncertainty, wishing for a glimpse of the shore. 

Erik huffs out a chuckle through his nose and reaches up to snatch Charles’ hesitant hand. He guides Charles up to the sharp curve where skin stretches over his jaw and slopes down his neck. With Charles’ fingers resting with pressure, pulling down, Erik lets him go and returns his own hand to his lap. Charles glances at those thin fingers, happy to see they’re no longer balled into fists. Erik’s body and mind are calm. Charles catches a glimpse of a salt flat with just enough water on it to vanish the horizon. The tranquility helps center Charles, bringing him back to the task at hand. 

With Erik’s hand-guided permission, Charles bends over his head and sets the blade against skin. He focuses on pressure and direction of the sharp edge. His worry of nicking Erik, even when Erik had assured him that he wouldn’t, vanishes when the handle subtly vibrates again. Charles keeps hold as Erik guides the steel blade through hair with his power. Charles bites back a grin and a smug reference to his earlier point, that Erik could shave himself. Erik cracks open a grey eye at him, as if sensing his amusement. His mouth twitches in a brief smile before his face smoothes out again. 

“So,” Charles murmurs, “you really could have done this yourself. Your mutation is quite extraordinary, Erik.” 

Erik doesn’t open his eyes or smile this time, but the watery salt flat in his mind takes on the hues of sunset. Charles just hums, though, and goes along for the ride. He could easily just let go of the razor. But the steady, mechanical flow of his wrist via Erik’s mutation appeals to him. The friction of hair against the blade and the crackle as the hair gives into the razor keeps Charles grounded. Charles relocates his other hand every time they finish another area. Erik hums under his hand once, when the razor blade scrapes over the jut of his chin. Charles has to bite his lip to contain a reciprocating noise. It’s the only sound Erik makes through the whole ordeal. 

Handing Erik a damp, warm towel as he finishes, Charles washes his hands and the razor. He gives his back to Erik. His eyes are down, concentrating on cleaning everything they’d used. The legs of Erik’s chair skid on the bathroom tiles. That and the rustling of clothing are the only things that give away his movement. There’s warmth along Charles’s legs, his back. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the heat of another. Charles shuts the water off in the sink and glances through his hair again at the mirror. He doesn’t mean to gap at the vision that waits for him. 

Erik stands behind him, remade at last. He’d be boyish, if not for the hollowness of those high cheeks and the yellow tinge lingering in his eyes. His hair grows forward, a fringe edging slightly over his hairline. Charles finally gets a glimpse of that shapely jaw, without a beard for Erik to hide under. Erik’s thin lips still surprise Charles, but it fits his angular face. Charles admits Erik is classically handsome, unfairly so for having lived in the woods for years. He counts himself lucky that Raven is married and utterly faithful to Hank, since they’d always shared a type. Charles scolds himself for such thoughts, though. Especially given Erik’s suffering…

‘Such thoughts’ are cut off, though, when Erik grasps his shoulder to coax him around. Charles’ lower back digs into the vanity behind him. The chill of the stone shocks him, slicing through the damp of his sweaty shirt and warmed skin. It only distracts him for a second, though, before Erik boxes him in with his eyes and arms. Charles bottles a sputter as Erik slots their bodies together, uncaring of their compromising position. Attempting to respect their last shred of personal space, Charles cranes his head back. But Erik follows with a frown on his face. Charles’ mouth drops open a few times, and a few aborted sentences die on the edge of his lips. He gives up, swallowing hard and licking moisture back into them. He tries to ignore how Erik watches him do that. 

The interest in his lips is fleeting. Erik’s eyes dance over the healing scratches on his face. His gaze eventually drops to the yellowing marks on Charles’ neck. There’s no space left for Charles to lean into, to scoot away from Erik. Really, he could put a stop to this with a single thought, if he felt in danger. However, Erik’s mind is awash with regret and shame, so Charles allows him this close. One of Erik’s hands leaves the vanity, ghosting the outline of Charles’ arm as it travels up. Charles’ eyes flash to the movement before staring at the slight furrow in Erik’s brow. When Erik’s long fingers graze the imprints they’d left behind on pale skin, Charles flinches and squeezes his eyes shut. 

The flinch rattles through Charles’ weak body and bites everywhere they touch. Erik sucks in a breath and stumbles away. His back hits the opposite wall. Cool air rushes to fill the space between them, and it plasters Charles’ shirt to the front of him. With a shaky hand, Charles plucks at the front of his shirt to unpeel it from his chest. The humidity from Erik’s two baths has crawled out of the room, allowing fresh air from the hallway to take its place. Charles sucks in a lungful of that air, just to get the clean smell of Erik out of his nose. 

Erik unwinds across from him. His shoulders climb down from his ears, and his fingers uncoil from his sweatpants. Charles nudges his back off the vanity to eat up some of the space between them. Erik avoids his gaze for once, guilt yellowing the edges of his mind. Charles scrambles for a fix for this, to prevent Erik from closing off. There are more important things Charles should worry about, concerning Erik—the lingering damage in his mind, the possibility of violence, figuring out exactly who Erik is—but it’s far easier to focus on the now. And right now, the only cards Charles has to play with are offerings of comfort and understanding. 

Erik’s hands are still worn in his, but the roughness has lessened some. Charles clasps a broad palm between his own and squeezes until Erik looks at him again. Erik’s free hand falls to his side. 

“I want to help you,” Charles admits with a soft smile. “You’ve been through… too much for one person to handle alone.” 

The crease between Erik’s eyebrows deepens as he frowns down at Charles, but it passes in the blink of an eye. Erik wiggles his thumb free and hooks it over Charles’ wrist. The rest of his fingers fan out across the inside of Charles’ arm. Charles wills his heart to calm down when it thumps away against Erik’s palm. Charles sweats to think that maybe Erik can even **hear** his heartbeat over the occasional drip of water from the shower or their heavy breaths. Nervous energy curls tightly in Charles’ stomach, and he grasps at straws to unwind the tension between them. 

“T-thank you, Erik, for making the perimeter around my garden. It’s worked wonderfully to keep the moles out...” 

Charles mentally cringes at such an off-the-wall thing to say, having no correlation to anything in the present. A sneaking glance at Erik’s face, though, assures Charles that he probably didn’t hear it anyway. Erik’s upper lip curls up in a grimace to reveal his teeth. Through narrowed eyes, he stares at something over Charles’ shoulder, but nothing but their reflections in the mirror greets Charles when he looks. Charles tosses his hair out of his face with a twitch of his head, and he cranes up into Erik’s personal space. He lingers there, hoping Erik will notice and come back. 

Erik’s eyes falls shut, and he bites back a grunt. The hand not clasped tightly between Charles’ rises from Erik’s side. Erik rubs his temple with the back of his hand, fingers curled gently into his palm. Charles half expects Erik to claw into his arm as he bears the brunt of this new torture. Despite his obvious pain, though, Erik’s touch along the inside of Charles’ wrist and forearm remains light. Charles’ fingers twitch against the hair on Erik’s arm. Sweat gathers where their skin meets. 

“Erik,” Charles begins again, “are you all right?” 

“Yes,” he murmurs instantly, followed by, “no, I mean…” Erik’s hand pauses on his forehead, and he squints at Charles through his fingers. “It’s difficult to think. To remember things from before. It’s better now, though… Than it was.” 

Charles huffs through a smile and teases, “That’s the most I’ve heard you speak, I reckon.” 

Erik’s hand drops away from his face, leaving the skin of his forehead flushed from all the rubbing. “Talking is easier, too.” He hums, losing his train of thought with a frown. “But not like it was… before.” 

The word hangs between them with intent. It’s the first time Erik has made reference to his life before his trauma. Charles feels the edges of ‘before,’ jagged and yellowed, at the front of Erik’s mind. The more the poor man thinks about ‘before,’ though, the deeper his frown becomes. A pained grimace resurfaces on his face. Without considering the consequences, Charles peels away the hand not entwined with Erik’s and lifts it to touch his cheek. The skin, freshly shaved and soft, stains red under Charles’ fingertips. His fingers catch of the high ridge of Erik’s cheekbone. Charles would carry on with his exploration, but his caress is enough to jolt Erik from his circling thoughts.

Erik’s breath rushes against Charles’ palm when he sighs. Erik butts his nose into Charles’ hand next, his lips skating across skin for a moment. Charles bites back a smile while watching the spectacle. He knows Erik’s mind is still fragile, caught on the cusp between civilized man and the wild creature he’d been in the woods. It’s not often that Charles has to reach out to a person’s reptilian brain to read intent. But with Erik, it’s the least muddled part of him. Perhaps the only part of him untainted by the telepath who’d hurt him. And that part of Erik’s brain is just _happy_ that someone is touching him again. 

“Erik,” Charles murmurs to gain his attention. He cracks an eye open for Charles, but beyond that, continues on his merry way of snuffling and nuzzling Charles’ hand. “Will you… will you stay with us? Here? I want to help you, to start over. Anything you need.”

He expects Erik to bristle at the offer of help. Charles remembers how he’d handled Raven and Hank’s instant offers of aid after the accident. With nothing but his pride remaining, he’d denied and rebuffed every gentle hand, every kind eye. Charles recognizes the hypocrisy he’s just committed, but he doesn’t care. He’s caught a fever ever since handing a napkin-wrapped sandwich over to the metal bear, and that fever demands he provide every opportunity for Erik that he can. Even if Erik only accepts the offer of a roof over his head, meals, and other bare necessities, it will be enough for Charles. 

“There’s plenty of room,” Charles rattles on when Erik doesn’t respond. “And I’m friends with loads of doctors back in New York. Any of them would be willing to provide therapy, if you wanted. And—” 

Charles’ lips halt on the next word waiting to come out of his mouth. With the curious tips of Erik’s fingers brushing across them, he has no choice but to stop. Between them, the grip Erik has on his other hand tightens the longer they stare at each other. A panicked look, wild and fierce, widens Erik’s grey eyes and lifts his brow. Charles swallows hard on his dying words, sensing that he’s overstepped. Erik’s touch on his lips slips away when the silence lengthens. Charles’ eyes slip shut, full of remorse. 

“I’m sorry, Erik,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“No doctors,” Erik grumbles. “No one. There’s too much I don’t know, don’t remember.” He struggles for words again, brow wrinkling in frustration. “I’ll stay. But no one else.” 

Hope relights the kindling Charles thought he had trampled to ashes. He nods and finally untangles his hands from Erik, despite Erik following his retreating touch with annoyed eyes. Charles glances at the mess left in the bathroom and turns his back on it. He can deal with it tomorrow, after a well-deserved night of rest. Excitement for the future tingles along his spine, at the hair on the nape of his neck, yet Charles knows he could fall asleep right now. He needs to settle Erik in a guest room before that happens, though. 

“Charles.” 

He has one foot in the dark hallways when Erik stops him. It’s the first time Charles has heard his name from Erik’s mouth, and it startles him. He delays in turning around, tossing the sound of his name around in his head. The logic part of Charles recognizes that it’s foolish to dwell and swoon over something so trivial, especially from someone he’s only recently met. That damned romantic in him gently kicks his logical self down a flight of stairs, though, and allows him to languish over it all. He really should turn back around and answer Erik, though. 

“Yes?” He croaks at last, unable to completely clear his throat. 

Erik’s body blocks light from the bathroom, and his shadow spills into the dim of the hallway. The light once again lends a red shine to his hair, although it’s less noticeable with the short length. Even with Erik’s face in shadow, though, his serious frown curtails Charles’ appreciation of his clean form. Charles cocks his head to the side, urging him to continue. Erik covers the distance between them swiftly to join Charles in the pillar of light spilling out of the bathroom. Charles has to look up at him this close, but it’s no longer unpleasant to be near Erik. He smiles with the shy brush of fingers along his wrist. 

“I can’t promise,” Erik murmurs slowly, “that this will be easy. There are things you don’t know, that I can’t remember. This is all… confusing.” 

Charles nods, eyebrows flicking up with the motion, too. “I’m not doing this because I think it will be easy. It’s something that needs to be done. It’s the right thing to do.” 

“You don’t have to be the one to do it.” Erik’s words rush out of him, puffing almost angrily in his face. 

“I want to be.” Charles snags Erik’s uncertain, wandering fingers in his fist. “I assure you, I don’t do anything unless I want to.” 

They’re close again, in each other’s faces. How he ends up in Erik’s breathing space, Charles will never know. In other circumstances, Charles could easily see them sharing a kiss or tearing into each other like animals. This isn’t other circumstances, however. Charles pushes the image away without a second thought. Erik’s frown deepens and his eyes narrow at Charles, clearly upset. He needs assurance right now, not a flirty remark. Erik’s mind is jumpy and unsure, one moment away from flight. 

Erik sighs, and his eyes fall shut. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

It comes off like a last ditch attempt at getting Charles to back off. There’s no heat in Erik’s words, as much as he believes he will indeed hurt Charles again. It circles on the surface of Erik’s mind, orbiting at a breakneck speed like Mercury about the Sun. 

Charles’s fingers skate along Erik’s chin and nudge his head up. Erik opens his eyes, but he refuses to meet Charles’ gaze. Accepting the challenge, Charles ducks his head until he’s in Erik’s line of sight. The edges of his thin lips tick up in a grin, but Erik swallows it as fast as it’d come. It’s good enough for Charles, though. 

“You won’t,” he promises. “And we can talk about all the ways you won’t hurt me later. For now, I’d love to show you a lovely, one-bedroom flat that has utilities included.” 

That earns Charles a snort out of Erik and a roll of his eyes under thin lids. Charles savors that bit of reaction, though. The possibility of Erik hurting him, and Charles returning that hurt, is incredibly real. Charles won’t deny he worries about it. He’d brought Erik into the house and tried to give him a bit of humanity back with a bath and a shave. He guides Erik down the hallways with the full knowledge that this situation might break his patience, might turn him against Erik. But to watch Erik sit on a bed for the first time in ages, to watch him test its firmness with his hand, already makes all that future strife worth it.

 


	8. Don't Feed it After Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super shout out to readers who comment. You guys are the MVPs. Do YOU (yes, YOU) wanna be an MVP? Give that big ole comment button five across the ass, then. Not just here, but wherever good fics are made. Anyway, enjoy this last chapter of easy going. Shit is about to get... treacherous. :3c

Charles worries that the trend of him awakening to the stir of Erik’s bright mind in the middle of the night will become a thing between them.

The siren call of Erik’s mind lures him from sleep. It cries to him, in sheer agony, as the man himself paces in the guest room Charles had left him in. Charles mistakes the mournful tone in his head as well as the subtle shaking of the bed for part of his dream. However, the longer Charles stares at the ceiling, flat on his back, the more he’s sure this isn’t a dream. Fists twisting his sheets, Charles inhales deeply while deciding what to do. A pen rolls off his nightstand and clatters to the floor, dancing across the wood to Erik’s strumming power. He’s shocked Hank or Raven haven’t barged into his room yet. He should probably do something before that happens, really.

Lips parted in a sigh, Charles rubs a hand across the sleep sweat and oil on his forehead. As a mote of dust, he slips under the space between the floor and his door. Hugging the edge where hardwood meets drywall, he skitters down the hall and squeezes himself into what he already thinks of as Erik’s room. Sure enough, the mutant paces the foot or so between his bed and the glass door that leads outside. Erik’s hands cover his face, with his fingers sometimes clawing at his hairline. His mind is muddled and fuzzy again, as if Charles had never reached inside him and cleaned some of the mess up. At the slightest brush over the backs of Erik’s hands, though, the sad song ends.

All the metal in Charles’s room abruptly stills. Charles’ body fails to keep up, though, and he tingles everywhere that touches his mattress. Down the hall, Erik stands stationary in his room, his mind having flat lined. Charles grunts and scoots to the edge of the bed. He’s keen on shuffling to Erik’s side to smooth this over. Charles wishes he had been awake when the shaking had started, if only to help Erik reign in his control sooner. The thought occurs to him that maybe Erik had a nightmare, or maybe he’d never fallen asleep at all. Charles only has one leg dangling over the edge of the mattress, lost in thought, when Erik wanders out of his room.

Charles freezes on his bed with a hand clutching his nightshirt. He waits. For what, he isn’t sure. His dust mote dances across Erik’s forehead again, dipping deep enough to read him this time. Erik’s thoughts circle again, looping back on worry and… fear. Charles frowns at his bedroom door as his mote bounces down the hall on Erik’s heels, heading towards the library. Erik’s wandering is mindless until he shivers and glances outside. He eyes the garden, wilting under constant rain, and his thoughts of worry take on a hue Charles can only identify as himself. Charles’ puzzlement only continues to grow as Erik takes the patio door’s handle in hand and slides it open.

Charles doesn’t immediately jump up. Erik’s fear and worry anchor him to the house, to where he knows Charles is. There’s not even the slightest thought of returning to the forest lingering in Erik’s thoughts. The mutant closes the patio door silently behind him, and his mindless wandering begins anew. This time, his feet carry him around the porch and back towards Charles’ room. Shaking his head to disperse his confusion, Charles kicks his leg dangling over the bed to scoot himself all the way off. Erik draws closer as Charles searches for a thin robe. Although once he has it in hand, Charles scoffs at himself for putting the damn thing on. Erik wouldn’t care about appearances, especially not when he’s so preoccupied with… this.

Erik’s shadow blocks out early dawn light on the other side of Charles’ sliding door. Through the curtain, Charles watches him with held breath to see what he’ll do. Erik stands motionless outside for a moment. His thoughts buzz and grumble just beyond the glass, and the smaller, metal objects in Charles’ room vibrate once more. Where once Charles had clutched at his shirt, his hand returns to that spot over his heart. He twists the thin robe in his fingers, watching the shadow of Erik. Erik’s broad shoulders sag. His shadow shrinks as he steps to the edge of the porch, and then the tall man drops down to half his height. Charles scurries to the curtains blocking the door and peeks outside. He finds Erik sitting on the wood porch, legs dangling over the edge. It’s takes no effort from Charles to shove the curtains back, pull the door open, and join him.

Early morning mugginess beats Charles about his face. It’s not much cooler inside the house, but at least there he has a fan. The day promises to be heavy and suffocating. Erik doesn’t turn around to greet him. Instead, his worry and fear multiply with Charles’ presence. Charles hesitates by his side, casting a hard glance at the tree line. There’s nothing there, though, nothing except Erik’s bear marching through the yard. Charles smiles at it, forgetting for a moment that it isn’t alive, and drops down beside Erik with only a slight grunt. His body is still sleep sore, sore from sitting with Erik in the bathroom.

When Charles had stepped outside, a handful of topics for conversation had jostled for position for his choosing. Now, sharing body heat with Erik on the porch, those topics slip through Charles’ short fingers like dry earth. His mouth opens and closes in a few aborted sentences. Erik’s worries fester at the surface of his mind. They’re ready to spring from his lips, but Erik grits his teeth instead. Charles swallows hard and turns his eyes to the yard before them. This side of the house faces east, where the Sun is already sneaking over the horizon. Morning fog crawls across the yard, thick and cool. Charles kicks his legs through the bit of it that floats past the porch, as if kicking his legs through water.

“Do you know why I came here yesterday? Why I’m… sitting on this porch?”

Erik’s voice startles him, but Charles has just enough control to not flinch. But only just. The questions slip past Erik’s lips in a whisper, deepened and roughed by lack of sleep. Erik’s voice is a gravel path shifting under the smooth hooves of a deer. It isn’t meant to hurt or disturb anyone. Charles straightens his back to match Erik’s proper posture. The fog continues to roll past them as Charles answers him, not looking at Erik.

“I had hoped… that you’d tell me it’s because you wanted to be here.” There’s no one else around, but he whispers just as Erik had. “That you wanted to see me.”

Erik shifts beside him, somehow slipping closer until their knees bump together. “I’m here, on your porch, sitting outside your bedroom, because I’m afraid.”

Charles brows draw together. “Afraid? My friend, you are an incredibly powerful mutant. I doubt there is much for you to fear.”

In his lap, Erik’s hands twitch. His fingers are balled up together, with his sharp knuckles pinched white in his strong grip. Charles glances at the tension in Erik’s hands briefly before returning his gaze to the yard. Neither of them watches Erik unball a fist to rest his shaking hand above Charles’ knee. Foolishly, Charles flinches under the gentle touch, and immediately Erik tries to flutter away. Charles beats him to it, though, and traps his shy touch with his own hand. It’s almost too humid to be this near, but Charles bears it to keep Erik beside him.

Charles’ whisper drops to that of a hummingbird’s wings beating the air. “What is it, Erik? What is it that you fear?”

Air draws into Erik’s lungs with a rush. His shoulders rise with the action, bumping against Charles’. “There’s a place, deeper in the woods than the graveyard. I’ve never been able to go there, not even after you found me. It’s…”—Erik’s mind conjures screams, running, and the crying of a child—”There is nothing but death. And I’m afraid that I’m the one who caused it. That it will happen again. You make me less afraid, so I’m here.”

Charles nods with a shallow breath. “What are your memories of this place? Can you show me?”

Erik’s fingers dig harshly into Charles’ flesh for only a split second before he wrangles the anger back. “Do you really think I’d want to share that kind of suffering with you?”

Charles rolls his eyes and pinches the back of Erik’s hand. “Well, if you won’t show me what you remember, then you can at  **least** do me the courtesy of taking me there. Revisiting the scene of severe trauma often helps unlock memories. And there’s no reason to be afraid of this place if I’m with you.”

“How can you know that?” Erik’s voice cracks over the words, tight with emotion. His hand above Charles’ knee remains gentle, though. “How can you be so calm about this? I might have killed people.” Erik pauses a moment to calm his breathing. His thumb drags across the soft material of Charles’ sleep pants. “I almost killed you.”

“Enough of that,” Charles sighs and leans his head on Erik’s shoulder. “I’m not worried about what ‘might’ happen. I offered you anything you might need last night. And facing these terrible memories is just something that needs to be done.”

Charles cranes his head on Erik’s shoulder to find Erik watching him. He meets those wide, gray eyes, hardly recognizing the uncertainty floating in them. Purple bruises, heavy and deep, stain the skin just under those eyes. Wrinkles appear at their corners when Erik closes his eyes with a sigh. He leans his jaw and cheek against Charles’ head, cementing them together from head to knee. Excitement and nervousness of the unknown stirs behind Charles’ heart, but he bottles it and shelves it for later. There will be time in the future for such soft, delicate things.

Erik’s voice thrums through his skull when the man speaks again—still hushed, still vulnerable.

“I’m also afraid of this.” He squeezes above Charles’ knee. “We’ve only just met, and yet I can’t stay away. It’s foolish, to have feelings for you. How can it possibly be real?”

Charles pinches his eyes shut and turns his head minutely into Erik’s shoulder. Erik’s suffering is too much for such an early hour. All Erik seems to do is suffer, and Charles doesn’t know where to begin to end it. Charles’ eyes flutter open again, and he spies the yet again ruined remains of his garden far off to the left. It too has seen its fair share of suffering. He had begun it again and again through sheer will and desire to see his project produce results. Regardless of those results, he’d wanted to try, to see it happen. Regardless of what Erik feels for him, regardless of what  **he** feels for Erik, Charles knows he must try.

“One crisis at a time, my friend.” Charles shifts under Erik’s head, to move away and yet not yank out from under him. Erik removes his weight with a soft noise caught at the top of his throat. Charles leans far enough to way to make eye contact without straining his neck. “You now have all the time in the world to figure out the truth. And I’m thankful for the time we’ve been given together.”

Erik’s eyes flinch down to their hands where their fingers lace together. Charles would have missed the look if he had blinked.

“It doesn’t upset you, for me to tell you this?”

Charles shakes his head and resists even the smallest of smiles. If Erik misunderstood him now, if Erik mistook his gentleness as patronizing…

“No, it doesn’t. You’re not the only one trying to make sense of how they feel.”

He doesn’t offer anything more than that. He doesn’t try to pull back the curtain on his vagueness. To assure Erik of anything now would injure them both. It’s all he can give Erik, for now. Erik accepts this with a nod and turns back to watch the clearing fog in the yard. The Sun will soon burn the wisps away as if they’d never been there at all. Charles would gladly sit and watch time pass with Erik, just to occupy the same space without promises or intentions clouding them. He’s realizing just how much he’d gladly do with Erik.

“Tell me about your family,” Erik requests after a silent moment. “Tell me about your life.”

Charles’ head finds a rest at Erik’s shoulder again. Erik does not lean on him, though.

“You met Hank and Raven last night. Raven is my sister by adoption. She and Hank have been married for three years, although they’ve known each other longer. We met Hank at the same time, and I’m happy to say there was no friendly squabble between us for him.” Charles grasps at other things to say, yet wanting to avoid the awkward topic of his parents. “They are, um, both mutants, too. Raven can mimic any person, down to their clothes and voice. And Hank is--”

“Blue,” Erik offers with a smirk in his voice.

Charles hums with his own smirk and continues, “Yes, blue. They’re both blue, actually. Raven’s natural form is blue. Hank’s blueness is a more... recent development. His primary mutation is actually in his feet. They’re rather ape-like? It’s extraordinary.”

Erik shifts on his rear before settling down again. “How did Hank become blue?”

“Classical science experiment gone wrong.”

It slips Charles’ mind that Erik had asked about his life, too. Charles watches the metal bear march another line across the yard before Erik nudges him with his elbow.

“What about you, Charles?”

“Oh, well I’m a telepath.” Charles shrugs against Erik’s arm. “It was frightening, as a child, to suddenly hear everyone’s thoughts. But it gets easier with time. I’m rather good at it, too.”

Erik chuckles at that. “What else?”

Charles rolls his eyes up to peer at Erik without craning his neck again. “Hmm?”

“What else? Tell me more.”

Sensing Erik means ‘more’ other than his mutation and family, Charles licks his lips and searches for harmless things to divulge. He can’t possible load Erik down with the circumstance of his accident, although he feels comfortable with telling him. It’s another thing to save for the ambiguous “later” along with all the rest. Charles eyes the sky, on the lookout for building storm clouds. He wouldn’t put it past the weather to turn rainy like it has all this week. He’s had all the rain he can take.

Returning his gaze to the yard, Charles finally offers up, “I graduated from Oxford many years ago, with a doctorate in genetics, to be broad. There’s no curriculum or source materials on mutations or the x-gene yet, but that would probably be my true area of interest. After Oxford, I’ve gone back and forth from living in upstate New York and lecturing at Columbia. The three of us only moved here recently. I was” —he shifts to regains some feeling in his ass, wishing for a chair or at least a cushion—”involved in the mutant rights scene. Pro-mutant integration, obviously. And well, now I’m here.”

“Growing vegetables and wandering the woods,” Erik points out.

“Precisely.” Charles pauses a moment before adding, “I’m teaching myself to knit, too. That isn’t going terribly well, but everything takes time.”

The desire to reciprocate, to bounce Erik’s question back at him, crawls up Charles’ spine like a line of ants. It’s subtle at first, and then all at once it’s itching to get out. Of course he wants to know everything about Erik, probably since the moment he’d seen Jean’s memory. Charles’ nails scratch at the wood beneath them while he considers propriety. Would Erik even remember anything from his life before? Surely they can glue the pieces back together, if Erik wants.

“What, um… What about you, Erik?” Charles nudges Erik with a gentle rock of his body, trying to appear casual. “Do you remember anything? Your family?”

Erik picks at the knee of his borrowed sweatpants, where the material is fuzzing up. Charles bounces his calf off the edge of the porch while he waits for a reply. He won’t push if Erik has nothing to say.

“My family?” Erik frowns at the mist in the yard. “You reminded me of my parents. I had forgotten about them. Misplaced them, somehow…”

Charles’ leg goes still off the edge of the porch.

“They’re not alive anymore,” Erik says plainly, like one would talk about the weather. “They’ve been dead for a long time.”

“Erik…”

Erik lifts his free hand from his lap and taps at his forehead. “Everything is still a bit out of order up here. I can recall things you touched, like my parents and Magda. Otherwise, my recall is piss poor, so I hardly remember anything from the woods. The woods seem familiar, but I don’t even know how I ended up there. It’s like I was always there.”

Somehow, Charles’ head ends up butted against Erik’s shoulder again. He doesn’t mean to, but it ends up there anyway.

“I think it has something to do with the place I’m afraid of. Every time I tried to go there, sometimes on accident, sometimes on purpose, I could hear screaming that was coming from nowhere. And smell fire, but there’s never anything there. I tried again after we met, but still...”

Charles nudges Erik’s shoulder. “We don’t have to talk about that, if it upsets you.”

“I want to know what happened there,” Erik objects strongly. “I want to know what happened to me.”

Hands still clasped above his knee, Charles drags his fingers through the valleys between Erik’s. He wants to know the truth, too. It lurks under the murky water of fear and needs only for them to wade waist deep to find it. Charles would gladly scour the bottom of a swamp alongside Erik to reveal the truth from the muck and mud. He plans to, all in due time. A tired noise slips from Erik’s throat, and his fingers spasm to capture Charles’ in his again. Charles relents with a huff and a smile.

“We can start at the library in town,” Charles murmurs. “At a minimum, they’ll have newspaper archives we can sort through, if you are from this area. At best, they’ll definitely have a computer. We’ll Google you.”

Eriks hums, a bit patronizing according to the uncertainty that splashes at the front of his mind. The scale of Erik’s mindlessness in the forest returns to Charles at that point. He’s aware that historical events that have passed since Erik’s trauma would of course be unknown to him. But history isn’t the only thing that has left Erik behind. Erik might not know what Google is. If Erik had access to the Internet before all this, he certainly wouldn’t recognize it as it is today. Charles holds on to Erik’s hand all the tighter while considering this. The unfairness of Erik’s life continues to mount.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to help you, Erik,” Charles promises him. “My every resource is at your disposal.”

Shuttering, Erik hums again and turns his head to bury his face in the top of Charles’ hair. His slow, lazy breaths warm Charles’ scalp. When Erik hums again, the vibrations buzz right through skin and bone, right down to Charles’ spine. Charles bites back a laugh at the ticklish spasm of his back muscles. He has to fight his shaking shoulders, too, so that he doesn’t accidentally clock Erik in the face. Erik’s mind fuzzes over with exhaustion, though, so he doesn’t even notice Charles’ struggle for composure. The fuzz is infectious, and soon Charles covers a yawn with the back of his free hand.

“I think we’re both due for a nap,” Charles teases. “Especially you, since I assume you haven’t slept at all since we parted last night?”

Erik grumbles something, but Charles has already dragged himself to his feet. It strikes him now that he’d left behind a cane in his haste to comfort Erik. Luckily, the muscles in his legs cooperate for once and hardly shake at all. Charles hums and rubs at a headache blooming behind his eyes. The Sun is rising, and the pressure outside has increased since their talk began. A short nap might do him better than any pills, so he foregoes them. The house is still cooler than the outside, and Charles silently thanks Erik when he slides the glass door shut behind them. He even draws the curtain to block out the sunlight.

“Thank you,” Charles sighs as he sits on the edge of his bed, facing Erik. Enough light passes through the blue curtain to outline Erik in the dim bedroom. “Also, thank you for staying. I had worried you’d slip away in the night, and I’d have to convince you to come back.”

“If anyone could convince me, it’d be you.”

Erik holds his position near the sliding door, giving no sign of leaving. Charles drums his fingers in his bed sheets and bites at his lower lip.

“I’m going back to sleep. We’ll reconvene in, say, an hour or two? I won’t try to tell you what to do, but you really should sleep.”

The corners of Erik’s lips tick up in a lightning-fast smile. He covers the distance between the door and Charles’ bed with a step and a shuffle. Charles ogles Erik’s trim waist at eye-level before tilting his head back. Without looking, Charles reaches out for Erik’s rough hands and traps the tips of his fingers in a loose hold. Erik shuffles that much closer to bring them knee-to-knee. His desire to stay here and nap beside Charles prowls at the fringes of his mind, pacing much like he had earlier. There’s no intent, no subtext in the thought. It’s an animal desire Erik is used to handling.

“Do you think it’s a good idea? As much as we both might want to?”

“If you want to,” Erik murmurs down his nose. He shows no sign of offense at Charles reading his thoughts. “Then why question it?”

Charles shakes his head with a smile and looks down at their hands. “It isn’t the wisest idea. You yourself admitted your doubt that this is real.” Erik’s fingers tense in his grip, and Charles lifts his gaze to searching, gray eyes. “I don’t want to push you away. And after this moment, I won’t. But for the sake of both our feelings, we should sleep separately.”

“For now?” Erik immediately fires back.

Charles lifts an eyebrow at him. Erik has the decency to blush and glance away for a second. Charles counts it as a victory.

“Yes, my friend. Only for now.”


	9. Based on a True Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> = ))))) The suffering begins. Get ready, and please don't be afraid to detail your sadness and theories to me in the comment section below. I just love *clenches fist* I love suffering. 
> 
> Disclaimer for the title of this chapter is that this story is fictional and all similarities to places or persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.

“So,” Hank begins, pinching the bridge of his nose and skewing his glasses, “are you going to explain who our guest is and, maybe,  **where** he came from?”

Raven groans from where she’s hunched over the kitchen table, “Skip to the end and explain the where. Did you go to some remote island and find the damn missing link?”

Charles ignores both of them and continues frying the eggs in his pan. An earlier knock on Erik’s door hadn’t awoken him, so Charles had left him alone. Now, he’s busy cooking a meager breakfast for all in attendance before everyone’s day truly begins. Hank and Raven should be leaving soon for their respective jobs. Charles eyes the clock on the wall above him and begs for time to go faster. He isn’t keen on having this conversation right this second, but he knows avoiding it can’t last forever.

“Erik’s story is rather complex and… Incomplete. I’ve invited him to stay with us for as long as he wants, if only to help him gather his bearings and get his feet under him.” Charles knocks clumps of egg around with a spatula. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t be a problem, but I understand your frustration at me not asking or telling anyone first. It wasn’t something I’d planned.”

Hank sighs beside him and turns on his heel to walk away. Annoyance sours Charles’ appetite. Hank’s chidding attitude from last night had resurfaced immediately upon them seeing each other this morning. Adding Raven to the mix had introduced notes of exasperation and sarcasm to the bubbling brew. Charles swallows it down, though, and serves up equal portions of eggs on three plates. Quarrel or no, he’ll serve breakfast as if nothing is amiss.

“I wish you two wouldn’t talk about Erik as if he’s some ‘thing.’ He’s human, a mutant actually, and deserves our altruism as much as any other person would.”

Hank accepts his plate with only a sigh, Raven hers with a snatch of her hand.

“He’s dangerous, Charles,” Hank murmurs.

“Aren’t we all?” Charles quips back without turning an eye on his friend. The chair he grabs scoots silently on the floor as he takes the space across from Raven. Hank remains standing, towering over Charles on his right.

“Yea,” Raven drawls, “but I wonder how stairs we don’t have managed to put finger bruises around your neck. Or, what was it, how ‘wild hogs’ punched you in the face, for that matter.”

Charles drops his fork back to the plate with a clang and stares Raven down. ‘Wild hogs’ slips out of her mouth with such grease, he’s surprised Raven hadn’t spat at him. She already has her face on, blonde hair tumbling over a shoulder. She drags a mouthful of egg off her fork with her white teeth showing and stares him right back. Raven’s carefully transformed mask shivers as Charles narrows his eyes at her. The ripple arcs through her face, giving her away, before she finally turns her attention back to her breakfast. She isn’t cowed, she never could be, but they know each other well enough to sense a lose/lose battle. They’d probably fight like old times if Hank weren’t standing right there.

“Erik is powerful, I will admit that. However, he  **isn’t** ”—Charles shoots a stink eye at both of them—“dangerous. He needs help.”

Raven jumps from her seat with enough force to flip her chair onto its back like a turtle. “Why don’t you send him on his merry way and get some professionals to help him, then?!”

“That isn’t what he wants,” Charles fires back, just on the edge of raising his voice. “I respect Erik’s autonomy, and I’d ask that you do the same.”

Raven opens her mouth to yell something back, but Hank rests a hand on her shoulder before she can get a word out. Instead, she explodes in a fury of movement, batting Hank’s hand away. Hank recoils and hunkers down in his shoulders, curling his smacked hand on his collarbones. Raven’s anger breaks for a moment at the sight of her husband cowering, but she just as quickly turns that anger back on Charles. Raven pulls Hank’s plate out of his other hand and abandons it on the table with a hollow bang. She urges Hank out of the room with the promise that she’s right behind him. With Hank just out of earshot, though, Raven whips around with a finger pointed at Charles.

“This isn’t over, Charles,” she whispers. Her voice carves into him. “We’re gonna talk about this eventually. And you can’t lie your way out of it forever.”

Charles bites the inside of his cheek to stop from retaliating. When he doesn’t offer a rebuttal, Raven sighs and slips from the room. Charles scoots his plate away with the heel of his palm. The front door slams shut on the beginnings of an argument between husband and wife. Their voices drift teasingly on the edge of Charles’ hearing. The telepath plants his elbows solidly on the table and rubs at his temples with with hands. He doesn’t even need his powers to block Raven and Hank with all the turmoil boiling over in his mind.

This inner turmoil also helps to block Erik’s presence in the doorway between kitchen and dining room.

He spooks Charles like a shadow on the edge of one's vision. Charles’ fork clangs against his plate when he jumps. Erik’s mouth twitches in a smirk, but his expression flattens again before he even steps closer. Erik watches him, dressed in more of Hank’s borrowed clothes, without a sound. His gaze wanders without purpose, from Charles’ face, to the abandoned plates of food, and even over Charles’ shoulder to the stove. Eventually, those steely eyes finally settle somewhere in the center of Charles’ chest. Charles flexes his hands on the kitchen table before flattening them, if only to stop his nervous fidgeting.

“Good second morning, Erik.”

Erik bows his head shallowly, but he offers no smile or word in return. His mind is bleak and numb, such an exact contrast to their dawn conversation hours ago. Charles rocks his chair back far enough to shift his legs from under the table. He turns to Erik, to stand, but Erik beats him to it. Erik swings his narrow waist around the table and kneels in a fluid motion in front of Charles. Flinching, Charles’ hands fly from the table to hover above Erik’s shoulders. He hesitates to touch, only because of the droning flatline of Erik’s mind. Erik himself grumbles something and drops the dead weight of his head into Charles’ lap. He misses the important bits, but Charles still seizes up, startled a second time.

“Hello to you, too,” Charles murmurs with a blush.

Charles helps himself to the clean, trimmed cut of Erik’s hair. At the back of Erik’s neck, the hair is short and sharp like velcro. Charles bites his lower lip as Erik’s hair falls back into place with each stroke. Erik’s voice vibrates against Charles’ thigh, and Charles hums as if he’d heard Erik’s words. The vibrations continue, though, and Charles rolls his eyes at Erik’s antics. Short hairs snagged between his fingers, Charles coaxes Erik’s head to the side. Once Erik’s lips touch air, though, he clams up and silence pours into the kitchen. Charles doesn’t worry about suffocating in it, though. Erik’s mind tells him all he needs to know.

Worry, doubt. Confusion. More worry, and fear. Ever present fear.

Charles sighs. “I hope you didn’t hear what Hank and Raven were going on about. They are extremely protective of me. Suffocatingly so. ”

Erik snorts against Charles’ thigh. Charles takes it as a sign that Erik had missed that little spat and counts himself lucky. Despite the brief laugh Charles had coaxed out of him, though, Erik’s lips remain sealed over his words.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Charles jokes.

“You could read them. I don’t need a penny.”

Charles smiles through an exhale and tries again. “That would be cheating, though. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

Erik’s head weighs heavily in his lap, as if the world were pressing down on it. “I want to take you to the place in the woods. The one I told you about.”

Charles nods. His fingers trace patterns in Erik’s hair. “Today?”

Charles holds his breath when Erik tenses in his lap. He tries to turn his head back to Charles’ thigh, but Charles just tightens his grip in Erik’s hair to stop him. Erik’s humid breath dampens the material of Charles’ pajamas. Biting his bottom lip again, Charles corrects his slumped posture and jostles Erik’s head. Erik presses harder against him. In his head, Erik’s thoughts circle like mad dogs chasing their tails. Worry edges out all other feelings until they’re both almost drowning in it.

“Erik?”

Erik grunts through a shiver that tingles along everywhere they touch. “No, not today.”

Charles nods again. “Is there a reason why? I respect your wishes, I’m just… curious.”

Enough of Erik’s face is upturned for Charles to see him bite his lower lip. Erik pinches his eyes shut and murmurs, “You like me right now, and I don’t want that to stop. “

“Why would it stop?”

Erik’s nose smashes against Charles’ thigh, and through the material of his pants, Charles makes out the pitifully muttered, “What if I did something terrible? Something so terrible… you’d ask me to leave?”

Shaking his head, Charles wiggles both hands under Erik’s head and lifts the heavy weight of it until he forces Erik to look at him. The side of Erik’s face that had been pressed tightly to Charles’ thigh is warm, while the other side is almost chilled. Charles cradles the sharp angles of Erik’s cheekbones in his hands and refuses Erik the opportunity to turn away. He has to resist the urge to trace the dark bruises under Erik’s eyes with his thumbs. They watch each other during this silent moment. Erik shuffles on his knees, but besides that, he gives up any attempt to escape.

“I can’t promise,” Charles begins with a sigh, “that whatever happened to you won’t upset me.” Erik’s gaze drops, and his eyes slip half closed. “In fact, I can guarantee my upset, not necessarily with you, but at the situation. However…”  Charles’s stomach extends with a deep breath. “I could never send you away. If you leave, it will be entirely your choice. That I can promise you.”

Erik nods in Charles’ relaxed grip, but his mind still sloshes with worry. Charles hums and shifts a hand only to run his fingers through Erik’s short hair. The worry flutters like a leaf on a breeze. Hesitant happiness bleeds through to take its place, but the usurper isn’t strong enough to drive worry completely out. It lingers under Erik’s surface thoughts. Charles knows it will sink, for now, only to percolate up through the layers later. And that’s not to say Charles doesn’t worry. Charles closes the door on worry before it floods the room and taints every moment he spends with Erik. He isn’t looking for the inevitable end of their friendship, unlike Erik.

“I’m not in the habit of breaking promises,” Charles adds with a laugh. “And I promised myself that I’d wander over to Logan’s fields and beg a favor from him. So…” The hand tangled in Erik’s hair scratches gently at his scalp. “If you would be so kind as to let me up…”

“Must I?” Erik mutters with his eyes still mostly closed.

“You must, my friend.”

Charles’ hands slip from Erik’s face and hair with some reluctance. The reluctance is mutually felt, since Erik drags himself up while maintaining as much contact as possible. Charles ends up with the legs of his pajama bottoms rucked up to his knees. Snorting, Charles paws at Erik’s hip to urge him back. The feet of Charles’ chair still squeal and skid on the floor, even with the extra distance. Erik tails him with Raven and Hank’s abandoned plates in hand while Charles carries his own. Charles offers to cook for him while rinsing all the dishes, but Erik declines the offer with a shake of his head. He’s quiet, even in his mind, but his close orbit assures Charles that everything is all right.

“Erik,” Charles begins once he’s led them to his bedroom, needing to dress for the day ahead, “I am itching to ask you questions about your mutation, but I admit I don’t want to offend you.”

“Why would that offend me?” Erik asks from the hallway, where he’s stationed out of sight to give Charles privacy.

“I’ve always held the belief that it isn’t proper to ask about a person’s mutation, unless they’ve offered the information themselves. Not everyone is as open or… happy about their powers as we are.”

The material of Erik’s borrowed t-shirt scrapes against the wall in what Charles assumes is a shrug.

“Ask away, I don’t mind. If I can’t answer something, then I can’t.”

Charles nods and licks his lips while he flicks through hanging shirts in his closet.

“I’ve already thanked you for the little perimeter you made around my garden. But when we moved in a short time ago, Hank and I discovered a similar sort of… trap around the house. I assume it was a trap, since I saw your bear friend in the woods after Hank tripped over the line.”

Erik snorts from the hallway. “I put that there to keep teenagers and vagabonds out. Abandoned houses are a magnet for mischief.”

Charles discards his pajama top and trades it for a button up. “Hank was actually the one who chose this house. I told him what I was looking for when we lived in New York, and he searched for houses that matched my criteria. When we arrived that first day, that was the first time I’d actually ever seen this place in person. But Hank nor the realtor ever told me the house had been left to sit. How long has it been abandoned?”

“... I can’t say for sure,” Erik replies after a stretch of silence. “Time is muddled in my head. I remember a family living here by the time I was deranged. But I couldn’t tell you how many children, what the parents looked like.” Erik’s words stopper for a moment, only to seep out again. “I remember playing with a child, entertaining them with my power. A boy, maybe? I think he explained my existence away as an imaginary friend. But then one day they’d left.” He shrugs again. “I wanted to keep the house in order while they were gone. I felt like they’d come back eventually, since I didn’t have a good grasp on time. But no one ever came back.”

Charles swipes his traditional, aluminum cane from his bedside after wrestling on a pair of slacks. More questions about Erik’s powers beg at Charles’ ankles like unruly puppies, but the melancholy that had accompanied Erik’s story silences them. Charles joins Erik in the doorway by the time he finishes his story. Erik’s eyes are half-lidded in thought, with his gaze pointed near the floor and far away. In his mind, Erik leaps from a great height to dive into the depths of himself. He kicks and struggles for the memory of these people, but always runs out of air before he reaches them. Charles’ hand barely glances off the hairs of Erik’s forearm when he flinches away. Charles doesn’t try to touch him again.

“I’ve upset you,” Charles murmurs with a frown.

“No.” Erik shuffles close until the doorjamb wedges in Charles’ spin. He thinks better of it when they’re chest-to-chest, though, and backs off just as quickly. “You couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault.”

Charles takes one of Erik’s hands without a second thought. “I  **am** sorry for what’s happened to you, though. I hope today we can put to bed some of the mystery behind you, as alluring at that mystery is.”

The space between Erik’s eyebrows bunches up when he frowns. “What are we doing today, if I’m not taking you into the woods?”

“We,” Charles says with a pull of Erik’s hand down the hallway, “are going into town to visit the library, where I can try to find out who you are and what happened in the past. Hank and Raven share the car, so I’ve asked Logan, my neighbor across the street, to drive us.”

Erik follows Charles through the house without trying to take his hand back. “But besides my name, you don’t know anything about me.”

Charles steps into his shoes left by the front door with a shrug. “A first and last name is plenty, if you know how to search the internet correctly.”

“You know my last name?”

Erik’s hand slips from his when Erik stays rooted to the spot. Charles throws him a patronizing look. “Of course I know your last name. So do you.”

Anger twists Erik’s mouth for a moment before he bites it back. “No, I don’t.”

Charles opens his mouth as if to argue back, but he blinks and the fire in him snuffs out. Erik lingers in the shade of the house while Charles stares at him from just outside. Even in the shadows, though, Charles makes out the agonizing twist of Erik’s mouth and the subtle tremble in his fisted hands. Resisting the urge to cover his mouth in shame, Charles leans into the house to ghost his fingers over the back of Erik’s shaking hand. He wants to hold Erik’s wrist, but the idea that Erik might deny him hurts Charles more than he likes.

“It’s Lehnsherr.”

Erik’s face smooths out gradually as the name sinks in. His hands relax, too, enough for Charles to wrap his fingers around a broad palm and coax Erik onto the porch. Charles flashes him a quick smile and locks the front door. He offers Erik his hand again when that’s done, and Erik surprises Charles by taking it. Together, they march through the dew covered grass, heading for the gravel lane through the trees. Erik matches his stride once they’re under the cover of the trees so that they walk side by side. The only time their pace stutters is when they’ve hustled across the street and Erik pauses to stare at the blooming lavender mounds.

“Something tells me you don’t get over on this side of the road very often,” Charles jokes.

Erik shaked his head. “There’s a beast who protects these fields. Somehow, it always knew when I was around.” Erik thumbs a fuzzy leaf from a nearby tomato vine. “It would always chase me away.”

“You mean Logan?”

Erik shrugs and drags Charles forward. “I just know it had claws.”

“Definitely Logan.”

Said man—beast, Charles must remember to tell Logan that later—stands with his arms crossed over his chest, cigar gripped between his lips when they arrive. Erik’s feet dig into the earth when he stops, but Charles continues to stride ahead. Rather than break his hold on Charles’ hand, Erik grumbles something and shuffles behind Charles. He’s near enough to brush against Charles’ clothes, and Charles swallows a smile at the thought that Erik is cowering. Logan’s impatience melts away with a grin around his cigar.

Lifting the smoking thing away, Logan jerks his head to indicate Erik and ask, “So, this is the boogeyman I’ve been chasing away from my tomatoes for years. You cleaned him up good, Chuck. Doesn’t look so Tarzan anymore.”

Erik bristles behind him, but Charles ignores that. “He is the same. I don’t enjoy speaking for Erik, but I hope he’ll mind your property and stay out. I can’t promise he won’t sneak a fruit or two.” Erik huffs behind him and tugs on the back of Charles’ clean shirt. “But he is on the way to rejoining society. You’ll be helping us with that today, Logan, and I thank you for it.”

Logan’s mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “Anything for you, bub.”

The tugging on the back of Charles’ shirt increases in strength and frequency. Charles rolls his eyes and twists around to slap at Erik’s hands. Unseen by both, Logan’s smile gains enthusiasm and sprouts teeth until he’s grinning. By the time Charles faces him again, Logan has the grin under control. He lifts an eyebrow at the pair of narrowed, steely eyes that glare at him over Charles’ wavy hair. Logan snorts and waves them forward with a hand, leading them to his pickup truck parked on the other side of the house.

“There’s one seat up front, two in back, but my toolbox is bouncing around back there. So Chuck, you sit up front with me. We’ll let Survivorman take the back.”

“Is that all right, Erik?”

Erik frowns at Logan’s back, but with Charles’ attention on him, he can’t hold it for long. Erik’s face smooths out and he nods. Logan’s truck is boxy and dented, painted the color of dried earth where mud hasn’t splashed up from the tires. Inside, the cloth seats stink of engine oil and age. Charles hesitates when he jerks the door open, the poor thing groaning on its hinge. He then fumbles with the lever that cranes the passenger seat forward, but eventually he figures it out. With one last sour look, Erik ducks down and crawls in the back. He doesn’t even grunt when Charles releases the seat and it bashes into his knees.

“All aboard,” Logan drawls where he’s hoisted himself smoothly into the driver’s seat. “Let’s hope she starts the first time.”

Charles glances over his shoulder at Erik and offers him a brief smile. He chalks Erik’s pitiful frown up to the cramped space and the newness of Logan. Erik’s fingers curl over the backrest of Charles’ seat, and Charles can’t help but reach up and pat his friend in comfort. The truck sputters to life during their moment, and once Logan forces the old thing into gear, he slots his arm along the back of the seat, covering Erik’s hand. Charles lowers his own hand in time to escape, and he bites his lower lip to stifle a laugh when Erik’s frown deepens. He glares at Logan’s arm, then at Logan, and yanks his hand out from under the farmer. Logan pays him no mind.

“So, Chuck, you said you needed to visit the library?”

“Oh yes,” Charles agrees and turns back around in his seat. “I hope we don’t take up too much of your time, Logan. I’d hate to bother you.”

Logan’s fingers catch on the sleeve of Charles’ shirt. Charles jumps at the contact. With a glance down, he smirks at Logan’s wandering hand. Erik’s frown persists, and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Quite a feat, for someone with a forehead that expansive.

“Not a bother at all, bub. I need to do some running around, anyway. I’ll drop you two off at the library and come back in an hour, how’s that sound?”

“Groovy,” Charles laughs.

“You’re a real card, Chuck.”

If Charles had chosen that moment to turn back to Erik, the sight of Erik’s eyes almost popping out of his head would have greeted him. If possible, Erik’s face would probably get stuck like that, perpetual frown and all. The problem is, his reptilian brain points out, that Charles is  **his** friend, and clearly this Logan character is trying to shove him out. His ape brain counters with the fact that Charles is his own person, and Erik has no right to be so possessive. The reptilian brain merely hisses back, as they do, while the ape brain tries to encourage it to higher thoughts. This argument continues, and is exactly why Erik spends the entire ride in pinched, stony silence. When Logan idles in front of the library doors, Erik has half a mind to drag Charles all the way back to the house and lock them inside. It’s a confusing roller coaster of emotions for him.

“Thank you, Logan,” Charles says from the outside of the truck, once they’ve piled out. “We’ll be out here in an hour when you return.”

“Don’t have too much fun.”

A faint frown lingers on Erik’s face when Charles finally looks up at him. At the slightest furrow of Charles’ brow, though, Erik schools his expression and flashes a quick smile. Charles returns the smile and offers his hand. Surprised, Erik takes his hand with a brief glance around them. Touching Charles comes easily when they’re alone or around people Erik feels superior to. However, the townspeople here might not look too favorably on them, for whatever ignorant reason they have. Charles just squeezes his hand, though, and walks them into the library.

“I’m going to use a computer to look you up, see what I can find out. You can sit with me, if you’d like.”

Erik’s gaze dances around the library before he answers. The building is old, its metal singing out to Erik in iron and impure steel. There’s a dull hum everywhere a computer sits. It’s foreign to Erik, the combination of sound and feeling as electricity surges through every CPU and monitor. He blinks hard to try and clear his head of the hum. Charles watches him with a curious, giddy smile bitten back and an eyebrow cocked. Blushing under the scrutiny, Erik looks away and nods, allowing Charles to lead him by the hand to a computer.

Once Erik sits, though, he can’t help but glance down the row of desk and peer over them to eye the books. It’s been forever since he’s read anything. Distantly, he feels as though this would have been a place he’d enjoyed. Charles types away on a clacky keyboard, unaware of Erik’s wandering eyes. Under the desk, Erik’s leg jiggles with built up energy. He almost sends Charles’ cane tipping to the floor a few times. When his anxious shifting shakes the monitor, Charles pauses his reading and sits up in his chair.

“You can wander around, if you want. I’ll be right here.”

It’s all the permission Erik needs. Charles watches his back until Erik disappears deeper into the stacks. With Erik safely tucked away, Charles slouches in his chair and sighs. He’d hoped the library might have a microfilm collection of the town’s newspaper. However, he’d not seen a station set up for the necessary equipment. A quick search of the nearby university’s website, though, had proved useful. Hank could easily pop over and collect some files for him. Charles emails him, hoping his personal account won’t bounce off the university’s spam blocker, and returns to his Google search.

“Erik Lehnsherr” hadn’t turned up much. Charles gnaws at his bottom lip, now facing the reality that this search might be more difficult that he’d thought. It always looks so easy on television, throwing a name into Google and having it spit social media accounts back at you. Erik is too much of a blank slate for that. On a whim, he types in “missing person database.” Surely, with the apparently rampant kidnapping of children or their “sudden” disappearance, some sort of government organization keeps track of them. He assumes the FBI would be his answer, however it’s not what turns up.

Funded and maintained by a branch of the U.S. Justice Department, the website turns out to be a searchable database for missing persons. Charles sits up straight in his chair. There’s the option for a quick search at the bottom of the page. Charles throws in Erik’s full name, his sex, and their state. Charles hesitates while selecting New York, not sure if a report filed for Erik would have originated in this state. It’s worth a shot, though, and Charles will sit and click on every damn state if he has to. He lucks out, though, and finds Erik with this first try.

The date last seen and the photo accompanying the post freezes Charles to his chair. Erik had last been seen in April of 2005. Erik smiles from a photo, cropping out someone pulled close to his side. He’s shockingly younger in the photo, with a fuller face and longer hair. There’s something blue smeared on his face, paint perhaps. Charles slumps in the chair, confused and upset, and lets his gaze wander past the monitor. Eleven years. Somehow, Erik had lost all that time. Some of the puzzle pieces have come together, such as Erik’s origins (this same town, according to the report) and how long he’d been hurt in the woods. Shaken but eager, Charles curls over the keyboard and refreshes his email, hoping Hank has replied.

Lucky continues to show favor to Charles. Hank writes that he has a brief window of free time, where he’s available for a quick trip over to the library. Charles requests copies of the town’s local newspaper from 2005, January through May most critical. Charles crosses his fingers that the files won’t be too large to attach when Hank makes a copy of the microfilm. Request sent, Charles sags in his chair once again and stares at the ceiling. There’s nothing particularly interesting about it, but it beats looks around and maybe catching sight of Erik. Charles thinks he might come apart at the seams if he saw Erik wandering the books, touching them lightly as if he weren’t allowed here. Charles glances at his email, not seeing a reply, and shuts his eyes while he waits.

The cool air of the library is a welcome distraction. He’d been so excited when they’d arrived that he hadn’t noticed. But now, jittering with anticipation of what Hank might find, Charles tries to focus on the minute sensory details around him. It’s a technique he’d used to entertain himself while stuck recovering from his injuries long ago. The low, incoherent murmur of voices bounces off the high ceiling and multiplies along the library’s walls. The cacophony ebs and grows with the cycling of the air conditioning. His knees would eventually ache from the cold, if they were to stay here for many hours. Charles shifts in the chair, noting how flat the cushion is under him.

Once he moves, though, the calm breaks. Grumbling, Charles curls over the keyboard and begs his email to refresh. He’ll pay later with a sore back for the terrible posture. The web browser stalls for an infuriatingly long time, hourglass spinning away on the screen as he jiggles the mouse.

“Oh, come on,” Charles whispers to himself. “Of all the times to be slow, you choose now?”

Speaking harshly to the computer must injure its sense of self-esteem, if it had such a thing, because it gives in to Charles’ demands and finally loads his email. There’s a reply from Hank, including attachments, waiting for him. Charles swallows a yell of victory. Hank has sent him five attachments, each labeled with the title of the town’s newspaper as well as the time frame they cover. Charles opens the pdf with dates from April, unable to resist jumping straight to the month of Erik’s disappearance. He scrolls down, scanning the issue dates as he draws closer to the day in question. Charles’ back twinges with leaning so closely to the screen, but he doesn’t even notice. He doesn’t notice anything at all once he finds the largest, boldest headline on all the front pages he’s scrolled by.

**NIGHT OF TERROR! LEHNSHERR AND SAMPSON FAMILY DOUBLE MURDER.**

Charles reels back in his seat, nearly sending it and him to the floor. A few people turn to glance at him with skeptical looks, but Charles ignores them. Shaking his head in denial, Charles sets the article to full screen. Below the headline, photos of the victims indent the article around them. He recognizes the much younger Erik, smiling with a woman on one arm and a child hoisted up with the other. Farther down, another family—the Sampsons, Charles assumes—grin from similar positions. Unable to look upon their faces any longer, Charles turns his stinging eyes to the words written about them.

He reads about their little house and property, set deeply in the woods. He reads about their little house, destroyed and burned to the ground. He reads about a husband, reported missing from the carnage that had taken a wife and daughter from the world.

Once again, Charles’s rests his back into the chair. Strength deserts him, leaving him with few other options. The weight of this knowledge opens a ravenous hole, just behind his heart. Charles feels himself collapsing into that point, shocked and heartbroken. He bites his lower lip, willing himself to hold it together. What would Erik think, if he came back and saw him crying? Anything could happen, if Erik were to read over his shoulder. Charles has a hand on the mouse, already minimizing the window, when large hands reach from behind him to cover his eyes.

“Guess who.”

Flinching hard, Charles jerks his hand away from the desk and sends the mouse over the edge. It dangles by its cord, swinging gently. Charles tenses under Erik’s hands, unintentionally afraid. Erik is flush against him above where the back of the chair ends below the wings of Charles’ shoulder blades. Air displaces above Charles’ head, and his hair shutters every time Erik breathes. Charles counts his blessings that he’d managed to send the article away, that he’d stifled his tears before this moment. Even now, though, his eyes sting under Erik’s hands.

“Erik,” he croaks.

“Correct,” Erik murmurs into his hair. “I found a book I remember reading a long time ago. The words were fuzzy on the page, though. I might need help… With reading…”

Charles sucks in a breath, aware of how his chin wobbles. “Of course. Anything, Erik, anything.”

Erik shifts behind him. The weight of his head gently knocks into Charles’, and he feels the sharp edge of Erik’s jaw pressing down on him.

“Are you all right?”

“Quite all right, my friend,” Charles lies. “Logan should be here, though, so we shouldn’t dally any longer.”

Erik hums, and the sound feels unsure, unconvinced through his skull. Erik stands back, removing the grounding weight of his head, and allows Charles to stand. Charles has enough wits to logout of his email, close everything he’d opened, and grab his cane. Erik shuffles beside him, the backs of their hands touching every step or two. Shooting a watery smile at a librarian, Charles leads them outside, where Logan is indeed waiting for them. Logan grins at them through the open passenger window, but at the sight of Charles downtrodden and red-eyed, the grin sloughs off his face.

Alarm lifting Logan’s impressive eyebrows up his forehead, he climbs out of the truck and approaches them before they can even step off the sidewalk.

“What happened?”

Startled, Charles’s shivers and looks around for an answer. He can’t admit what he knows, not with Erik in such a pleasant mood, with them in a very public place. Logan’s penetrating glower shifts from Charles to Erik, where he pins the other mutant like a fly to a board.

“What did you do, huh? Make a scene or something?”

Erik’s face twists in a snarl, but Charles steps between them before he can bark anything back.

“No, stop, nothing happened,” he pleads. He turns sad eyes on Logan and offers, “It’s rather moldy inside, and… and the mold irritated me.”

Logan’s mouth drops open, just a gap. Charles expects him to yell, and he flinches without thinking. It sends a sign to Logan, who improperly interprets the signal as fear. He reaches out to the hand Charles has ghosting over his chest, ready to stop him, and pulls Charles away from Erik. Charles loses his grip on his cane in the shuffle of movement. It clatters to the ground with a dull crash. Fury flares up like a geyser behind Charles, but he’s trapped in the eye of the storm with Logan’s mistrust an impenetrable wall at his chest.

“You don’t have to lie, Chuck. It’s obvious something’s up,” Logan growls.

He barely has the words out before Erik makes a grab for Charles’ other hand and yanks him back. They do a good job of making Charles into a rope in a heated game of tug of war. Both refuse to let him go, despite Charles’ frantic and annoyed calls. People walking in from the parking lot have stopped to watch the tussle, rather than help. Fed up with Logan and Erik’s bickering, Charles twists his hand out of Logan’s grip and turns fully to Erik. They’re all breathing hard and red-faced.

“Erik, please stop this. Let’s just go home, please.”

Still glaring at Logan, Erik loops an arm around Charles’ waist. He finally releases Charles’ hand, only to catch him around his shoulders. They’re pressed tightly to one another, leaving Charles wondering what might happen next. The world shifts around them, though, and clues Charles in to exactly what Erik had in mind. Their feet leave the ground, ignoring gravity with upturned noses, and fly away from an astounded Logan and small audience. Charles mistakenly eyes the shrinking buildings beneath them. Lucky for him, Erik’s firm shoulder is only a head turn away, so he hides there.

_ I didn’t know you could fly _ , he whispers in Erik’s mind, argument temporarily shelved.

_ It’s something I can do only when I’m… upset. Very upset. _

Charles nods against his shoulder.  _ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Erik. _

Confusion bounces around in Erik’s head like a ball let loose. No concrete thoughts echo back to Charles, only uncertainty and lingering anger at Logan. Erik grips him harder and sighs into his hair. Charles barely feels it over the humid wind whipping over them as Erik flies. He sends a brief apology to Logan, telling him that they’re all right and Erik is taking them home. Logan doesn’t send words back, only an annoyed sense of defeat and submission. With so much turmoil going on in his head and heart, Charles lets it rest at that. Thoughts of a pretty wife and giggling daughter roar in his mind until he’s deaf to everything else. He hasn’t a clue how to tell Erik, how to break the ignorant bliss with this spike of reality. A glance at Erik through the tangles of his hair assures Charles that he has to spill it all. Eventually.


	10. Shadows on the Edge of Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, two weeks late. Not because of the smut, which this chapter is smutty, but because of a pacing issue. This story steps it the fuck up after this peaceful porny bit. And I was disappointed by how quickly everything moves after this. BUT after two weeks, I hadn't worked on a solution. Aaaaand I'm writing this for free/fun, so I took a Fuckitall pill and am just posting the rest how it is. it was gonna take a whole extra chapter to fic. So if you notice an uncomfortable pace shift after this? Yea, you're not wrong. Complaints and comments can be filed below.
> 
> [Also, yey for cover art!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8190247)

That night, exhausted by sorrow and awkward silence between him and Erik, Charles crawls into bed with a gaping pit behind his stomach. Tending to the garden after they’d landed had calmed him some. However, Erik had not joined him outside as Charles had hoped. Erik had lingered on the fringes of Charles’ sight, never wandering close or seeking him out. It would have been easy to brush across Erik’s mind to find out what had troubled him. But with so much knowledge withheld about Erik, Charles couldn’t bring himself to violate the man any further. 

Charles cards his fingers through his damp hair, pushing strands back from his forehead. A shower had worked well to unwind some of the tension in him. Erik pacing on the other side of the bathroom door like a prowling tiger had brought it all right back, though. For a harrowing second, Charles had held his breath and thought maybe Erik would open the door and come inside. Through Erik’s eyes, Charles watches his long fingers ghost across the grain of the bathroom door. There’s sorrow sewn into the touch, but Erik does nothing more than touch. When Charles exits the bathroom later, he’s gone. 

Charles picks at his pajama top, trying to get some air on his damp skin. It isn’t quite stifling in his room, but it’s rubbing shoulders with the idea. He’s stolen the pedestal fan from the library, and it oscillates back and forth over his bed. When another wave of air ruffles his shirt and hair, Charles sighs. The pillow under his head fluffs up around him. It helps to block out the static whir of the fan motor. Charles shuffles his shoulders to get comfortable and scratches where his thigh sticks to his pants. Tension marches under his skin like ants. 

Sighing, Charles forces his head harder into his pillow. The sun had fallen from the sky hours ago, so there’s true darkness behind his closed lids. Fingers drumming in the sheets under him, Charles drifts through the house, searching for something to occupy all this pent up energy. Raven and Hank are together, although thankfully for Charles not “that” together. Raven slumbers with her body turned away from Hank who sits up beside her with a book aimed into the soft light from the nightstand. Every so often, Hank pauses his reading and glances at Raven with a private smile on his face. He doesn’t touch her, but the desire to hangs heavily in his eyes.

Charles leaves them with a taste of envy in his mouth. Like an addict to a source, he can’t avoid visiting Erik. He finds Erik standing under a hot stream of water, in the bathroom farthest away from the bedrooms. The scent of soap lingers in the humid air, and the pads of Erik’s fingers are pruned when he leans a palm against cool, white tiles. The hue in his mind that is distinctly Charles mixes with worry and something new. Charles watches the new emotion swirl on the painter's palette that is Erik’s mind and realizes, when it corrals everything ‘Charles’ together and wraps it up tight, that the new feeling is jealousy. 

In his bed, Charles covers his mouth with a hand and twists the other in his pajama top. He watches as Erik tries to separate all the colors again, trying to keep all of the ‘Charles’ things pristine and away from jealousy. But like a hound on a scent, it all mixes together again in a brown mess. Erik sighs in the bathroom, sadness and desperation echoing off the tiles and shooting straight back at him. Fingertips dragging, Erik’s hand slips down the tiles and falls back to his side. A finger twitches at the hot and cold knobs, and Erik’s powers twist them to shut the water off. The last wisps of steam roll over the top of the curtain like a cloud over a mountain. Erik lifts his head slightly. 

“Charles?” 

Flustered, Charles rolls onto his side and buries his face in his pillow. Erik had caught him snooping. Amusement oozes out of the bathroom across the house, and Charles groans into his pillow. He hadn’t meant for Erik to catch him sneaking around like a peeping tom. He’d specifically tuned Erik out whenever his gaze turned towards his own body, no matter how curious Charles is. It’s easier to handle Erik delicately without also seeing him in a… physical light. Charles blushes hotly against his pillow while dashing over that thought. 

Charles attempts to reach out to Erik, to apologize and set the record straight. However, Erik is busy viciously toweling himself off when he tries. The motions are mechanical and taskful, but the sensation washes over Charles’ body as if he were drying off, instead. Erik pays him no mind, or doesn’t notice him lurking there, and bends his knees to chase trails of water slipping down his legs. Charles bites his lip and flops onto his back, dragging the pillow with him in the process. His legs fall open to mimic Erik’s, only it’s less awkward since he’s lying down. Finished with his legs, Erik pats the more delicate parts of him dry, not lingering in the slightest. But for Charles—who hasn’t had anyone besides nurses, doctors, and a few unfortunate times **Hank** handling those parts of him—it’s a bit of a jolt. He shakes the bed when his legs involuntarily kick out. 

Charles skitters away from Erik’s mind with a firm hand over his mouth, lest Erik hear him whine through the connection. A glance down his body reveals an embarrassing, slight tent in his pajama pants. Charles presses his thighs shut, face aflame, and wills his interested body to calm. His embarrassment kicks off a feeling of annoyance, though, that only snowballs into a sense of unfairness. He has nothing to be ashamed of, really. Erik is an attractive man, Charles reasons. And the budding feelings between them might only naturally lead to something more… tactile. On top of all that, Charles explains with his arms stubbornly crossed over his chest, they are both adults, and he would never do anything Erik didn’t want. 

“Oh, sod it,” Charles murmurs to the ceiling and shoves his bottoms and underwear down. “Acting like I’m some fumbling teenager again.” 

He struggles for a bit to kick his clothes off, underwear twisting around one ankle just when he’d managed to get it off the first. Discarding his top seems like a good idea, too, if he’s sweating already. Blood rushing in his head and elsewhere, Charles twists on his bed to find a position comfortable for his back and aching knees. The chill from the fan always seeps into the hinges of his knees and stiffens them. Feet flat on the bed, Charles cups his warm hands over the bump of each joint and rubs the ache away. He keeps his mind off other things he’ll rub in a moment, too focused on getting comfortable for the main event. Breathing deep, Charles flattens his back in his sheets and draws his hands away from his knees. 

Humming, Charles drags the pads of his fingertips through the fine hairs on his inner thighs. He stops just before the crease where leg meets torso and runs the gauntlet again. He bites his lips and sighs while teasing himself. Charles tries not to imagine Erik there with him, either stretched out beside him watching or doing this. It’s difficult, though, when he wants that exact thing so badly. He adjusts a foot and splays his legs open wider. Cool air from the fan rolls over newly exposed skin and sends Charles into a fit of shivers. 

Fire stoked well enough, Charles leaves his left hand to its own devices on his thigh and relocates the right to more prime real estate. His short nails scratch through the neat and trim thatch of his pubic hair. He can’t be bothered to shave it all with a razor, but it’s manageable with this length. He’s only half hard at this point, but he’s unconcerned with rushing things. Charles digs his nails into his thigh for a moment while taking himself in hand, briefly enough to stroke once and then abandon his cock on his stomach. Shuffling again and inhaling a shuddering breath, Charles cradles his balls with a gentle hand and a sighs. 

His breaths aren’t loud enough to notice over the roars of the fan. However, the rush of his breaths are almost deafening in the close quarters made by his pillow. Charles bites his lip to stifle them and any noises that might come out. His face erupts into another furious blush to think a passing family member—or even Erik—might somehow hear him. He imagines Erik, always prowling the house, with silent feet stopping outside his door and pressing an ear to the crack. Charles adjusts his hand, fingers digging into the root of his cock to damn up some of that excitement. How dare the thought of Erik simply _listening_ to his sinful noises tip him precariously towards the edge. 

Charles’ eyes flutter open—when had he closed them, he doesn’t remember—to stare once again at the ceiling. Lips bitten and sore, he stops gnawing on the bottom one and sits up with a change of position in mind. His right hand pins his cock to his stomach, although he takes care not to touch too much sensitive skin. The left hand, quite happy to pinch and tease his thigh as it had been, moves behind him to help him up. Propped up with one hand fisted in the sheets, Charles jerks his head to send his hair out of his eyes. He blinks in the shadowy darkness of the room and catches the glint of something shining by the door. 

Blinking hard, he narrows his eyes and tries to make sense of what he’d seen. Charles’ head breaks the surface of his arousal, though, when the rush of another’s breathing tickles his ear. 

Caught, Charles freezes on the bed. The twin spots shining in the dark, eyes he realizes, vanish for a moment before reappearing. It doesn’t take much of Charles’ power to reach out and caress the familiar mind of Erik. Charles counts both of them lucky he’s not the “shoot first, ask questions later” type, otherwise Erik might be unconscious on the floor. The itch to grab the sheets and cover himself is almost unbearable with Erik staring at him. The unknown of what comes next roots him to the spot, though. 

A shiver runs through Erik’s grey-on-black silhouette. He shifts and steps into a dim column of light slicing through a gap in the curtains. The light snakes over his chin, over the razor sharpness of his cheekbones, and then offers a glimpse of his eyes for a moment. Erik stands in the thick darkness at the foot of Charles’ bed, but Charles stares at the space where those ravenous, gray eyes had been. He’s familiar with a crazed, predatory glaze over those eyes. This new feeling is a cousin to that, with all the desire and none of the rage. Erik **wants**. 

The bed beneath him jolts when Erik’s knees hit the mattress. Charles holds perfectly still, not exactly welcoming Erik but not wanting to scare him away. The mattress dips down by his feet, twin spots sinking on the insides of his soles. Charles barely manages to stop his feet from shuffling apart, spreading his legs open. More weight sinks into his bed, and another slice of light dances over Erik’s short hair. He lifts his head in the dark, light shining on one eye and the side of Erik’s nose. Charles swallows hard with a hand still covering his erection. 

Erik eyes him as he crawls another few inches up the bed, between Charles’ thighs. His forward-most hand dips the mattress enough to shift Charles’s ass. He lets it happen, though, and just watches Erik back. The hairs along Erik’s arm tickle the side of Charles’ knee before they break eye contact. Erik swallows and glances down where Charles’ short fingers try to cup and hide everything from his sight. Erik doesn’t reach out to move his hand, doesn’t touch him besides his arm and Charles’ knee brushing once another. The desire runs rampant along the surface of his mind, though, and it’s loud enough for Charles to hear.

“Erik,” Charles whispers. 

It shocks both of them, their combined flinches shaking the bed. Erik lifts his devouring gaze back up. 

“How, um… How long have you been standing there?” 

Erik has the decency to dart his eyes away and avoid Charles’ stare. “Just before you touched yourself.” 

Charles sucks in a breath through his nose and nods. He wonders exactly how _well_ Erik had seen him in the dark, but he won’t ask. “All right. Well—” 

“You don’t have to stop,” Erik cuts him off. “I wasn’t going to do anything. I wasn’t going to hurt you, I—” 

“I know, Erik, I know,” Charles says with a hush to his voice. “You… surprised me, is all.” He plans each word careful, neutrally. “I usually hear people coming, and that’s the second time I didn’t notice you.” 

Erik’s fingers, chilled compared to Charles’ excited skin, drag up the curve of Charles’ calf. He scoots closer, fully kneeling on the bed now. Charles risks flashing Erik anything private and spreads his legs to accommodate. Erik’s curious touch drifts over the bump of his knee to the top of his thigh. His fingertips catch on the scars on his knee, but Erik pays them no mind. Charles leans back against his pillows and fishes out his free hand to trap Erik’s hand on its march north. Erik’s eyes had been following the movement of his own hand, but now they turn to Charles. His brows come together, confused, but he his hand doesn’t move anymore. 

Charles lectures, “It’s customary and polite to ask for permission to touch someone, rather than just doing it.” 

Erik’s face falls, and his hand tries to squirm away. His thoughts, once flirtatious, immediately sour and mold into disgust, shame. His whole body shrinks back, but Charles grabs him before he gets far. Their hands on Charles’ thigh remains, and Charles catches Erik’s arm with his other hand. He’s left everything open to the air, open to Erik’s eyes, but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. Erik had seen him bare all anyway, so there’s no point in continuing the charade, really. The muscle of Erik’s upper arm feels rather good under his hand, anyway. 

Charles is quick to amend his statement before Erik digs a hole for himself and jumps into it. “That wasn’t a ‘no,’ Erik.” Erik stops trying to wiggle out of his hold. Charles blushes in the dark. “It’s just how things are done. The right way. With permission and consent.” 

It’s Erik’s turn to bite his lip and scramble for composure. “I’m sorry…” 

Charles nods. “It’s all right. Thank you for apologizing. I know you meant no harm.” 

Erik nods, but Charles can only tell by the shift in his body, where he’s still holding Erik by the arm.

“Can I touch you? Please?” 

Charles searches for Erik’s eyes in the dark, but he can’t find them. Instead, he focuses where he thinks the center of Erik’s chest is. Erik’s mind is rife with worry and guilt. He scolds himself, despite Charles’ acceptance of his apology, for acting on his desires without thinking. The desire, **need** for Charles to give him this is overwhelming. It sends Charles’ head spinning. Still, Erik holds himself back, holds himself still in case Charles denies him. Dread and sorrow lurk in the shadows, in case Charles tells him no, but Erik absolutely knows he’ll leave if that’s what happens. Something like pride, although not as greedy as pride, warms Charles’ heart when he feels the respect and want rolling off Erik. 

“You may,” Charles murmurs between them, finally sensing the rush of breath over the top of his head. He and Erik are bent much closer together than he’d thought. “I would like that very much, Erik.” 

Nothing happens immediately. Charles expects Erik to fly apart like a watch wound too tightly, to fling him down and flatten them both to the bed. Instead, the hand on his thigh squeezes him, just enough for Charles to feel the blunt edges of Erik’s nails. Erik’s other hand, that had sought purchase on the bed to keep his balance, snakes up his side and presses in the center of his chest. Erik doesn’t try to force him down, but his weight and strength linger behind the touch. Charles shivers under so much focused attention, so much so close. 

“Lie down?” Erik asks. 

His chest shudders with a soft laugh, but Charles leans back as Erik requests. Charles slips his hand from Erik’s with a final squeeze. The tips of his fingers tingle as if shocked, even after he’s reclined back. Propped up on a nest of pillows, Charles has the perfect vantage to squint at Erik’s dim outline. Erik shuffles on his knees, down the bed to settle between Charles’ legs on his stomach. Charles tries to open more for him, but Erik’s hands cup his knees to stop him. Charles smiles in the dark, sure that Erik can’t see. A breath exhaled against his knee brings him back to reality. 

Lips and the prick of facial hair nuzzle the thin skin of Charles’ right knee. Erik treats the other knee to stroking caresses of his hand, and occasional pinch when he wanders farther up to Charles’ thigh. The scent of their clean skin is heavy in Charles’ mouth as he sucks in a breath. He isn’t sure what Erik has planned in that head of his. It wouldn’t take much to peek in, maybe plant a suggestion. But that idea is foul to Charles before he even finishes thinking it. Tipping his head back, Charles sighs into the cool air above him. He tracks every kiss, ever wet sound of Erik’s lips. He doesn’t need to watch Erik to enjoy this. 

Erik switches legs at some point during Charles’ introspection. Erik wiggles side to side, scooting closer and bunching the sheets up under him. His lips plant fresh kisses on Charles’ other thigh, this time venturing much higher. When Erik sets the sharp edges of his teeth into the flesh, Charles jumps under him. Erik smiles against the soft bite he’d given. If it were anyone else, Charles would kick them and flick an ear. Erik’s mirth in the little love bite only fuels Charles’ blush and ragged breaths. 

After the first bite, Erik intersperses his kisses with fleeting nibbles. None are as shocking as that first one, where it still burns a bit on the fatter part of Charles’ inner thigh. Not to be outdone, the arm Erik isn’t lying on drapes lazily up Charles’ torso. The backs of Erik’s fingers trip down the ridges of Charles’ ribs, almost tickling. Every time Charles squirms, Erik’s smile warps his kisses. Charles’ knee brushes up along Erik’s side. The touch mimics the lazy, thumping caress of Erik’s fingers. Erik rears up and back after one last kiss, and the movement allows cool air to pool between Charles’ legs. He’s on fire and tingling from his knees all the way to his hairline. 

Erik’s breath roars in Charles’ ears when he hides his face in the crook between Charles’ neck and shoulder. His weight settles on top of Charles’ chest, with his legs left clutching at Erik’s sides. Erik doesn’t rut against him as Charles expects; he merely bears his entire weight down on Charles, keeping him still and pinned. Charles can’t even rub against him, Erik’s hold is so absolute. Something possesses Erik with a newfound fervor, though. Erik’s hands grip his hipbones harder than necessary, thumbs digging in the hollow just above the bump of bone. His teeth scratch and bite at any skin he can get a hold of, no more kisses and grins. Charles shudders and jumps under the furnace of Erik’s body and ardor, hands flying to his back. Charles foolishly waits until a pinch of pain blooms in his hips, in Erik’s fierce grip, before he tries to interrupt. 

“Erik, darling,” Charles gasps in his hair. “Not so rough now, please.” 

Erik freezes on top of him, as if smacked. Charles paws at his back and writhes against him where he’s pressed tightly to the damn bed. A soft noise, wounded and apologetic, worms its way from Erik’s throat. Erik lifts some of his weight off Charles and presses his forehead to a sweaty shoulder. Hot, humid breath fans out over his flat chest, and Erik nuzzles his mouth in a not-quite kiss over Charles’ heart. Smiling at Erik’s hair in the dark, Charles drags on hand up his back and traces the shell of Erik’s ear with a finger. Erik hums against his heart. 

“It’s all right.” His voice his hoarse, made worse by a whisper. To be fair, Charles feels every shift of Erik’s thin, surprisingly heavy body against his trapped cock. He’d like to see anyone sound better in a position such as this. “You’re doing marvelously. Just not so hard.” 

Erik nods and sits up again. He towers above Charles, only noticeable by the glint of his eyes in the low light and his body blocking the fan. Charles squeezes the narrow waist between his legs. He resettles on his back, arms curled up around his head. Erik’s hands seek out the bump of Charles’ hipbones again, caressing where he’d held too tightly. Charles hums his thanks. He’d like to arch up, to grind against Erik and feel if he’s enjoying this. However, Erik’s thoughts blare incredibly loud, a constant loop of _make him happy_ and _don’t hurt him_. His focus is solely on Charles, without a thought to his own pleasure. Charles bites his lip and silently promises to make it up to Erik in the future. This should be stellar for both of them, but he understands what Erik wants right now. 

Sighing above him, Erik shuffles between his legs. Some of his joints pop at the motion. Charles makes a face in the dark, knowing that felt good. Erik’s hands are still warm on his hips, palms lying flat where Charles’ legs meet his torso. Fingers scratching at the short pubic hair within reach. Erik’s fingers remain just beyond the feverish skin of his cock. Charles wiggles impatiently, yet refuses to beg Erik to touch him. Instead, he relishes the loud, surface thoughts Erik has of him, the things he’s fantasizing about doing. Charles bites his lip hard through a vision of himself folded in half, Erik busy between his cheeks with tongue and teeth. Everything below his navel seizes, but he holds it all back. 

Charles’ stomach shakes with his panting when Erik finally, **finally** , brushes curious fingers along his shaft. Erik uses enough pressure to drag Charles’ foreskin back up around the tip, where he’s making a pathetic, gushing mess. Charles throws an arm over his face, bunching his shoulder up around his ear. It helps to block some of the awful sounds he’s making. It’s encouraging to Erik, though, who quickly gives up the tease and wraps a hand around him. The shock of a warm hand not his own sends his mind into a flatline. Erik’s thumb brushes firmly on the sensitive underside of his head. The touch punches the air out of Charles’ lungs. 

“Oh, god.” Charles gasps for breath. On a second swipe of Erik’s thumb, he chokes out, “Erik.” 

Erik’s other hand pets up and down his quivering thighs while he strokes. Charles fights between jerking his hips up with Erik’s fist or to stay still for his wandering caress. Erik releases him for a moment, an infuriating moment for Charles. Erik shifts between his legs, scooting closer and until Charles is in his lap. Erik urges his legs farther apart, putting a strain on Charles’ hips that he doesn’t voice. Satisfied, Erik returns to firmly stroking him. Charles enjoys that all on its own, but when Erik squeezes an ass cheek and fingertips brush across his entrance, Charles can’t find a word for what he feels. 

A long forgotten god rises from the ashes at the sound Charles makes, mistaking it for a prayer. He might attempt to moan Erik’s name, but all that bursts out of Charles’ mouth is some choked monstrosity. He would not have made such a noise if it weren’t for two factors: one being that he hasn’t been intimate in the two years since his accident, and the other factor comes entirely from Erik’s mind. His thoughts are litany of possessive and burning thoughts, ranging from _he’s mine, only mine_ to _beautiful_ and thoughts without words that Charles just knows are pleased and happy. 

"Oh, Erik,” he whispers. Sweat collects between his arm and forehead, but he doesn’t bother to move either. “Erik, Erik.”

Erik’s hand around him is deliciously smooth and tight, but all of Charles’ working brain cells focus on the gentle pressure against his hole. Erik’s fingers are firm enough to feel, far from a tease, and yet have no intention of dipping in farther. The pad of a thumb pushes down just behind his balls, and Charles’s thighs clamp around Erik’s waist. The bastard lets up, just when everything was white hot and tingling, and returns to his gentle circling. Erik’s fist shows him no mercy, twisting on the upstroke over his head and then squeezing just right all the way back down. Charles is a twitching mess under him, trying to keep rhythm with Erik’s hand but also rocking his body into the other. Charles’ control over his telepathy is shot, and he accidentally dips into another of Erik’s fantasies. 

In vivid colors, Erik fingers him in earnest, and Charles feels the phantom pressure of those fingers inside him. Erik is huddled over him instead of sitting high above. Their frantic panting mixes, and their faces slide cheek-to-cheek with every thrust into Charles. No one’s even touching Charles’ cock, but he’s straining and everything is at the tipping point. Erik’s imaginary lips brush the sweat of Charles’ forehead. His thrusts take on a brutal streak, the muscles of his arm jumping with every smashing stroke forward. Those unforgiving strokes force tiny noises out of Charles, and his body scoots up the bed with each one. He’s coming before he knows it, throwing arms around Erik’s shoulders and crying into his hair. All the while, Erik sighs and carries Charles through it, never giving him a moment to rest. 

Back in reality, Charles rips the pillow out from under his head and smothers himself with it. The muscles below his navel spasm, and his toes curl. The pressure of Erik’s fingers behind his balls returns, and he can’t hold it in this time. The pillow catches all his noises, loud and plentiful that they are. Charles bucks up with every little spurt of come that Erik drags out of him, stroking him into oversensitivity. Thankful for the pillow over his face, Charles bites the material and sees himself through Erik’s eyes. It’s still quite dark in the room, but Erik squints against it to watch him, wrecked on his back and quivering. Charles unravels a hand from the death grip he has on the pillow to push Erik’s hand away from his cock. Erik jumps at the contact, immediately apologetic, and lets him go without a fight. The phantom touch of his fingers, everywhere he’d grazed between Charles’ legs, burns long after the shocks of his orgasm have passed. 

Erik shifts between his legs, away as if to leave. Charles rips the pillow from his face and sits up to grab at him. His hands slip on the sweaty skin of Erik’s arms, but he digs in anyway. Erik reaches through the dark to touch him, too, welcoming him closer. Charles’ stomach drops, though, and he kicks his aching legs into the bed to bring them together. Trapped in Charles’ embrace from shoulder to hip, he has no choice but to stay. Charles has his face stuck quite nicely between Erik’s neck and shoulder before he thinks to maybe use words. 

“Don’t leave, Erik. Don’t go anywhere.” 

Erik cups the back of his hair, still damp from his shower. “I wasn’t. Not for long, I mean. I wanted to get a wash cloth… to clean you up…” 

Charles sags against his chest, bubbling with relief. “Oh, of course, of course.” He considers Erik’s firm body pressed along his front, not sure if he feels an erection or not. “Wouldn’t you rather wait until we’re done, though? You haven’t—” 

“No,” Erik murmurs on top of his head. “I don’t want that. Not right now.” 

“... All right,” Charles whispers quietly. “As long as you don’t think I don’t want you.” 

Erik chuckles and noses Charles’ clean hair. “You’re not so great at shielding your thoughts when we’re like this. I thank you, but it’s not that. It’s…” 

Charles tenses, thinking for a moment that maybe Erik did remember his family, remembered his wife and the things they surely must have done together. Erik’s caress along his back remains soft, though, and he hums tiredly into his hair. The unsaid something must not be that, Charles realizes. He’s thankful it’s not Erik’s deceased wife, although he thinks this with a great deal of guilt and shame. He won’t ruin the moment by telling Erik, though. It’s just another secret, for now. 

“Are you going to let me up?” Erik asks with a smirk in his voice. 

Charles sighs against his neck. “If I must.” 

They disentangle without more fanfare, although Charles has to stop himself from pawing at Erik as he leaves. The man returns as he’d promised, washcloth damp and in hand. He bats Charles’ hand away when he reaches for it. Erik tilts Charles’ face up with a hand under his chin, managing not to fumble in the dark. He wipes sweat from Charles’ face and neck, then turns to the already drying spatter on his stomach. Erik leaves without a word once more and slips back into the room later with hands that smell of the soap. He lingers at the edge of Charles’ bed, though, with thoughts that hiss and bite at himself. 

Charles finds his hand and tugs him closer. “Please, stay. I won’t touch you, but I’d like you to stay.” 

“I want that, too.” Erik descends on him without another offer from Charles. “I want to sleep here.” 

“Then let’s.” 

They manage quiet, with Erik’s heavy head tucked under Charles’ chin, long enough for Charles to almost nod off. Erik shifts and twitches in his arms, refusing to stay still. Cracking an eye open, Charles stares at the top of Erik’s head with only a modicum of annoyance. He grunts and squeezes the arm he has around Erik tighter, trying to subtly suggest that he calm down. Instead, Erik wiggles until Charles lets him go, and he sits up. Charles makes out the shine of his eyes in the dark, but other than that, he can’t see much. Erik’s voice startles him when he speaks. 

“I’m sorry for the way I acted today.” His hand seeks out Charles’ where he’d left it on the bed. “I wasn’t expecting your neighbor to be so… friendly towards you.” 

“The word you’re looking for,” Charles mutters, “is jealousy.” 

Erik hums and continues stroking his fingers over the back of Charles’ hand. His mind is a mess of curiosity and shame. Sighing, Charles settles back down on his pillow and traps Erik’s fingers between his. Erik holds on tightly. 

“You felt jealous, because of something Logan did or said?” 

Erik shifts on the bed, maybe he shrugs. “He was overly familiar with you. And he touched you.” 

“Hank touches me,” Charles points out. “And my sister. You touch me.” He squeezes Erik’s hand to drive that home. 

“That’s different!” Erik’s mind lights on fire for an instance before he reels it back in. “You’re their family and you’re my…” 

Erik struggles at that point, frantically searching for a word that accurately describes Charles and his position in Erik’s life. Charles waits without saying anything, just stroking his thumb along the side of Erik’s hand. He feels Erik shrink back into his shell, just enough that the phrase “slippery slope” bounces around in Charles’ skull. He doesn’t want Erik to clam up, to hold all these feelings in. Dragging feelings out into the open is never pleasant, but it’s Charles only option. It’s that or let Erik stew in this. 

“I’m your friend,” Charles tries, gently. “And you care about me.”

Erik’s fingers spasm in his. “Do you… care about Logan?” 

His gut reaction is to admit yes, Logan is his neighbor and kind, an important figure in his new life in this little town. But Erik’s pause, the kind of pause where one’s heart is in their throat, makes him rethink that answer. 

Charles ends up murmuring lowly in his throat, barely above a whisper, “And what if I did?” 

Erik’s instant sorrow burns him like ice on bare skin. He shifts away from Charles and forces himself up, leaning on an elbow sinking into the mattress. “I wouldn’t like it, but… I can’t stop you. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Except grab me and fly us back home, of course,” Charles teases. “But **why** do you feel this way, Erik? Why the jealousy?” 

Erik sighs in the darkness, exhausted. The reply comes out easier than Charles had expected.“Because I want you, Charles, but I can’t make you want me back. I don’t want it like that, I…” He fumbles for a moment, trying to find the words. “I want it to be easy, like when Logan looks at you, and you smile. He he can just touch you without thinking about it. I want that.” 

Blowing out a breath to release some tension, Charles lifts himself to match Erik’s position above him. His hands trace up Erik’s arms, up to his shoulders. 

“Come here, you insufferable!” 

Charles pulls Erik back down by his shoulders, a bit too hard, though. Erik’s forehead smacks into his collarbones, and Charles groans through a breath. Once he gets over the shock of bone-on-bone, Erik presses his lips to Charles skin in another not-quite kiss. He curls around Charles’ legs and somehow worms an arm under him. Charles retaliates in kind with both hands diving through Erik’s short hair. He breathes in the clean scent of Erik’s hair, startled when he smells his own shampoo there. It touches something delicate in his heart until he almost overflows with it. 

“Oh Erik, my darling,” he whispers into Erik’s hair. “Thank you for telling me that. I didn’t know you felt this strongly.” 

Erik’s nose drags along the middle of his chest, leaving enough room for him to speak against Charles’ skin. “I was afraid to tell you. It’s all happening so fast, and I don’t know where it’s going.” 

“I’m a firm believer that everything will eventually turn out all right,” Charles confesses. “And don’t look at this like there’s a speed limit, Erik. We set the pace, and we can go as fast or slow as we like. And I’m not planning on leaving you anytime soon.” 

“Me, too. I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
Humming into Erik’s hair, Charles relaxes his hands twisted in the short lengths. There are numerous things still fluttering in Charles’ mind, things he wants to discuss with Erik. Erik’s family buzzes about the loudest, along with Raven’s threat this morning. Charles shoos them away, packing the thoughts into a closet somewhere in the dustier parts of his mind. For now, all he wants to do is fall asleep with Erik safely anchored to his side. Everything will turn out all right, he repeats in his mind. It doesn’t sound as sure in the privacy of his head. 


	11. Haunted House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to the end ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ Officially, this story is complete on my end. So expect the weekly updates from now on lol. Sorry about that. Tired of the website telling you that you've already left kudos? Can I perhaps interest you in a comment instead? Do the thing, yea?

Erik continues to seek him out at night, and Charles makes good on his promise of not turning him away. Charles convinces Erik to knock on the door, rather than sneak in and watch him sleep from the shadows. Erik frowns at the joke Charles makes about heart attacks and surprises, but he obeys. Charles also manages to avoid the conversation he knows is coming about Erik. The summer semester is about to end for Hank, but the next begins in a mere two weeks. It doesn’t allow him much time to relax. What free time Hank has, he spends with Raven. And if Raven is occupied, she of course can’t corner Charles and interrogate him. Charles relishes the nights with Erik, teaching him about gentleness and patience. 

They spend every night in a similar fashion to the first, although sometimes with orgasms and sometimes without. Erik still hesitates to let Charles touch him, but he’s warmed up enough to let Charles undress him. They lie facing each other, Charles’ frantic breaths filling the space between their mouths. He’s calmed down a bit from the orgasm Erik had given him, but everything is still electric at the ends, still tingling. Erik’s lips drift across his forehead and the tip of his nose. Charles laughs shakily at the gentle pecks on his face, pressing a hand to Erik’s chest to make some space between them. 

“Oh Erik,” he sighs breathlessly. “What am I going to do with you?” 

There’s more light in the room than that first night. Erik had pulled the curtain back a bit before crawling on top of him. It had been startling for Charles to open his eyes mid-orgasm to watch Erik watch him. He doesn’t linger on that thought, but wraps it up in something soft to save for later. Now with that extra light, Charles blinks up at the serious, flat line of Erik’s lips. Gone is his soft smile that he’d had while watching Charles fall apart. The look dulls Charles’ afterglow, and he’s quick to try and make amends. 

“Are you all right? What’s wrong?” 

Erik searches his face before staring at some spot between Charles’ collarbones and chin. 

“I think… I think it’s time,” he says. 

“Time for what?” 

Erik glances into his eyes, and the dim light gives a desperate shine to them. 

“The place in the woods. I think I’m ready to go there.” 

Charles aborts a few responses with his mouth hung open a little. **This** has been something he’d selfishly avoided, too, as much as he’d avoided Hank and Raven. They’ve barely spent a day apart, even as the days grow shorter and the nights cooler. The tomatoes are all harvested, and their stalks shrink under the summer sun that fights the pull of autumn. All this time, he’s kept the secret of Erik’s life from him. And all this time, that weight has grown with guilt and shame. Charles blinks at Erik now as the secret between them climbs his throat and burns him. Charles swallows to dislodge it and nods. 

“If you’re sure,” he murmurs with a gentle hand on Erik’s arm. “You don’t have to do it alone.” 

“I don’t want to be alone,” Erik says, as if referring to something else. “I want you there.” 

Charles draws him down to Erik’s preferred place, tucked under his chin. “Then, I’ll be there. When do you want to go?” 

Erik shrugs. “What time is it?” 

“About an hour before dawn, I reckon.” 

Erik picks at a spot on Charles’ stomach where he hadn’t quite wiped up everything. “Let’s go when the sun comes up. While I still have the courage.” 

Eyes slipping shut, Charles holds Erik tightly to him. “You are unbelievably brave, Erik. No matter what happens, I’ll be there.” 

Charles isn’t sure if his words comfort Erik. He could cheat a little and find out, certainly, but he doesn’t. The words comfort him, too, because he is not brave. Inside, Charles quakes and shies away from whatever Erik has in store for them. How they are now, together, might not be the morally right thing for Erik—missing part of his life and stagnating with him. But Charles selfishly clings to how close they’ve become, how much Erik is **his** right now. Visiting this foreboding place in the woods might jettison them into a situation Charles doesn’t like. Charles bites his lower lip and dreads over a dark thought. This place might jog Erik’s memory, restoring bits or pieces. And Erik could decide, at any moment, to continue his recovery on his own. Charles hunches around Erik’s body and clings even tighter. He’d rather not imagine a world where Erik were out of reach. 

He holds this dread heavily in his stomach all through their pre-battle preparations. A cloud of gut-twisting worry and shame follows him as he dresses and then meets Erik in the library. Charles recognizes the t-shirt Erik swiped from the laundry room: one of Hank’s college shirts, probably bought during the prideful exuberance of freshman year. Erik glances down at himself the longer Charles stares. He doesn’t understand Charles’ fixation, but he offers a smile to break the tension. Charles shakes himself out of it and mimics the smile back. He can’t let Erik catch wind of his inner turmoil. He needs to be strong and supportive of Erik, no matter what. 

Erik’s eagerness to leave the house and finally put to bed this mystery hasn’t lessened since their talk. However, Charles pushes him into a chair and cooks something for both of them anyway. His stomach flips and tries to turn itself inside out, but he **will** make sure Erik isn’t hungry. A shower wouldn’t do any harm for them, either, but Charles doubts he can convince Erik to wait. He says nothing to Charles to express his impatience, but his actions speak plainly. Erik’s leg jumps with nervous energy, and his fingers tap out a fast rhythm on the table. He only smiles at Charles whenever their eyes meet, too. When Charles hands him a plate of potatoes cut into cubes with cheese and bacon crumbled over them, Erik shovels everything into his mouth without comment. Charles barely picks at his own meal, understanding that he can no longer delay the inevitable. 

Erik jumps from his chair once his food is gone. His dish bangs around the sink as he dumps it there for someone to wash. Charles stares at the remains of his food with slumped shoulders. Erik is a warm presence at his elbow, brushing against Charles’ shirt but not actually touching him. Charles risks a glance up at him and takes in Erik’s excitement and energy. There's worry peeking out from his eyes, too, and Charles nods as if to comfort him. 

“Ready?” Charles asks quietly. 

Erik nods his head and steps back only when Charles settles a hand against his hip to push him away. Charles dumps his food in the trash without having tasted it. His plate joins Erik’s in the sink, and Charles lifts his heavy head to stare out the small window perched above the faucet. Birds and insects flit about the grass and trees, oblivious to his inner turmoil. Erik is at his side at once, nervous energy leaking out of him and calling to Charles’ mind. Sighing, Charles rubs at his forehead and turns to face Erik. 

“Let's go, then.” 

Cane in hand, Charles pulls the patio door shut behind them when they exit through the library. He doesn't bother locking the door, having developed a reliance and trust on their remote location to prevent burglary. Erik is already at the tree line by the time Charles glances up. He stares at Charles with a hunger in his eyes, a ravenous need for the truth. Charles tucks what he knows into a deeper corner of his mind while making his way to Erik’s side. Erik smiles at him, but it's a brief, papery thing. Charles’ eyes find the center of his back when Erik turns in the grass and presses through the low-lying foliage. 

The metal bear materializes once they step past Charles’ property line. Erik leads them along the trail while the bear tries to share the path with Charles, although it’s unsuccessful. Charles stumbles into bushes a few times before he presses a hand to the bear’s head and forces it to follow him instead. The bear drops its head, but it heeds Charles’ grumbling and firm hand. When Charles twists back around to continue walking, he catches Erik grinning before he whips his head to face forward again. It warms the chill in Charles’ heart, but it’s not enough to completely dispel it. At least Erik’s mind buzzes with activity and excitement, along with a healthy dose of constant worry. They pass the cemetery in the distance, headstones barely visible through the brush, when Erik’s mood finally turns sour. His pace slows on the trail. 

“We’ll be there soon. I’m not sure what we’ll find, if anything is there at all.” 

Charles nods behind him. “If at anytime you feel we need to leave, just say so. We can always come back, try again—” 

“No,” Erik says forcefully, stopping on the trail and turning halfway around. “I need to know why this place is so significant. I’m tired of being afraid of it.” 

Charles tries not to shrink under the storm cloud that is Erik’s stare. In a blink, though, the unusual expression vanishes. Erik stares at him, confused, before marching forward again. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m just… so tired. Of feeling this way.” 

Erik misses the way Charles’ gaze drops to the trail beneath their feet, defeated. He lags behind as Erik carries on at a hurried, galloping gate. The metal bear bumps into the backs of Charles’ knees, but he makes no motion to hurry up. Erik crests a hill on the trail and disappears for a moment, only for his head to pop back over the mound. Erik purses his thin lips together and mutters something Charles doesn’t catch. The bear has practically nudged him up the hill to where Erik waits. Charles stands before him in silence with the plastic handle of his cane biting into his palm. 

“We’re almost there. Can you make the rest of the journey?”

Charles shivers to regain focus, but he cannot look up into those familiar eyes. There’s a hardness in those eyes, mimicking the cold, dead metal Erik is so tuned to. It leaves Charles grasping at straws and dizzy from the change. Erik has closed off to him, and yet not even Erik himself seems aware, so focused on his goal that he is. Charles just shakes his head at Erik’s questions and reaches back to graze his fingers across the bear’s head. 

“I’m not sure what’s come over me, my friend,” Charles says quietly. “I’m sorry for the delay.” 

Erik waves a vague hand at him and the bear. “I can carry you the rest of the way.” 

Charles’ eyes snap up, full of injured pride and annoyance. Erik doesn’t reach for him, though. Behind him, the bear pushes and shoves until Charles’ feet slip out from under him. The bear catches him sidesaddle. Charles immediately objects, but Erik has already turned his back and continues down the hill. The bear follows him, ever faithful, and pays no mind to the new weight on its back. Charles clutches to his cane as the ground passes under them in a blur. Erik has picked up the pace. 

The crunch of gravel under the bear’s metal paws catches Charles’ ear. He looks over the side of the beast and spies the abrupt change from worn, dirt path to gravel. Sure, the rock is pocked with weeds and overgrown by grass in most places. But the gravel is deliberate, the ghost of man’s hand on the land. They’ve touched the edge of a clearing, Charles realizes. The trees at the edge of the circle tower above the plants that have taken up residence inside the circle. The bear comes to a groaning halt at Erik’s back. He’s stood still, seemingly calm, but his hands shake at his sides. 

“Erik?” 

“Be quiet,” Erik bites back before Charles even finishes saying his name. 

This time, Erik doesn’t apologize for snapping. Instead, he steps deeper into the circle. The bear under Charles shudders and tries to edge away, back into the cover of old wood. He slides down to the ground in order to stay nearer to Erik. Charles watches the beast cower, wondering what—if any—connection it has to how Erik feels. Charles picks his way through the thick foliage to peek around Erik’s side. Nothing but green covers the ground, even the center of the circle where Erik stares with wide eyes. 

Charles’ fingertips graze the damp back of Erik’s t-shirt when he mumbles, “What’s wrong?” 

Erik flinches away from his touch, taking another step forward. “There’s metal here. Just under the plants…” 

Much like the night Charles had caught Erik in the garden, he raises his outstretched hands above the ground. They tremble, claw-like and bony, as Erik exerts his power over the hidden metal. The ground heaves in the center of the circle. Limbs from bushes snap, and small animals scurry to safety. The rest of the forest has grown still and silence behind them, around them. The cracks and rustle of distressing plants and Erik’s heavy breathing are all that’s left of sound. Charles reaches up to touch him again, but electricity tingles along his fingertips, and he thinks better of it. 

The groaning of old, rusty metal shocks Charles out of his concern for Erik. He has wrestled something of man’s from the hold of dirt and plants. Rusting, bent beams of iron come to Erik’s call. They rise on their ends from the ground and stand in columns that form a square. Bits of other metal—springs from a mattress, the door of an oven, and countless nails—free themselves, too, at the bidding of Erik’s hands. The scars of fire blacken any large pieces that float from the earth. Everything rises from where it had lain, forming the shell of… 

“This used to be a house,” Charles murmurs over the din of rising metal. Like Erik coaxing everything from the ground, the pieces are gradually coming together in Charles’ head. Piece by piece, the macabre puzzle forms in his mind. “Erik, this… This is…” 

“No,” Erik begs, a single gasp punches out of him. “No.” 

More pleas fall from his lips, but it’s lost to the whine of every piece of metal buckling in on itself. The temperature in the clearing soars. Plants immediately near the bones of the house burst into flame as the metal warps, changing from molten back to solid. The energy kicks up a blistering wind that throws around nails and other small scraps. Charles lifts a hand to protect his eyes from the whirling mess. The constant, dull ache in his legs ratchets up a notch under Erik’s wild power. A few feet away, Erik crouches in the dirt with his hands in his hair. It’s a startlingly familiar pose, making his cry of grief that much worse for Charles. 

Charles mistaken crosses the distance between them to lay a hand on Erik’s shoulder. The clearing vanishes, and before Charles’ eyes lies an open a Torah and the chaos of people crowding to hear him say the words inked on the page. That melts away, and he stands in a kitchen beside a woman—Mama—and does tricks with the silverware as she laughs. He’s practicing English on a bed that’s becoming too short for his growing legs. The words are sharp-edged and clumsy in his mouth. At a university, in a tiny town, he sees **her** and doesn’t know what to think. Her name is Annie, and she is ravishing in a white dress with flowers in her hair. 

Charles hears it, then, the screams of people. The heart-clenching terror nearly floors him. Phantom fire springs up around him, eating at the walls and pictures hung there. There’s a body at his feet. It feeds the fire along with everything else in the hallway. He recognizes Annie, but can’t stand to look at her face frozen in agony. Charles’ head whips around, terrified, as he searches for a way out. He dives through a window, glass slivers shredding him to ribbons. 

On the lawn, on his knees, a new horror waits. A child with burned clothes and charred hair runs for the safety of the woods. He sees her between the boots of a figure towering above him. A voice whispers in his head, with sticky fingers reaching inside to tear the order apart. He glances up with enough time to watch another figure dressed in black, ski mask over their face, form projectiles along their arms and fire at the child. The flames spread beyond the house and drive the murderers away. The voice that spills from Charles’ mouth is Erik’s; the hand that reaches out is Erik’s, until the fire consumes everything. 

On his side, back in his body, Charles’ own arms wrap around his head. The scent of burning wood and flesh lingers in his nose. It hurts to open his eyes against phantom smoke. Erik has vanished for the first instance when Charles finally manages to open his eyes. Unexpectedly, Erik has lifted himself from the ground and hovers in the metal destruction. Curled up like a child, he screams into the wind and tears at his hair. Charles pushes himself up with an arm and lets the wind whip at his face. The gale has toppled trees, and it feels as if the whole world will shake apart. A nudge at Charles’ elbow rips his gaze away from the apocalypse. 

The bear, missing a few pieces and shaking badly, bites at his shirt and yanks him away. Charles crawls towards it through the wind and metal-filled tornado. Erik’s cries echo behind him, and as Charles drags himself onto the bear’s back, he turns to look. The debris rips at Erik’s clothes and any naked skin. Under the tattered remains of the shirt, Erik’s back heaves and convulses. Charles tries to reach for Erik, to offer a calming hand, but only death and fire wait for him. The bear stumbles away, trying to escape, when Erik and his storm lift above the clearing. 

“Erik!” Charles screams. “Erik, stop!” 

His plea goes unheard, though. The bear, driven by some part of Erik’s mind, takes off at a shaky run. Charles clings for his life and watches the still standing trees swallow the image of Erik and his home. They escape the heat and cutting wind after crossing the gravel road. The bear’s form threatens to give way under Charles’ body, but he wills it to hold together. Charles leans over its head and murmurs against the metal. If Erik could ever hear through the bear—Charles still isn’t sure—he wants Erik to hear him. One of the bear’s hind legs crumples badly, and the poor beast drags metal on the ground rather than dump Charles off. 

Charles press his face to the hand he has on the bear, letting his skin collect his tears. They run farther and farther from the house, but every inch of Charles’ skin still shivers with terror. The burning house and murdered family members had seemed so real. It opens a gaping wound behind Charles’ heart to know that Erik had watched them die. The telepath that had maimed him left him whole long enough to watch everything. Charles squeezes his burning eyes shut until bright points of light dance behind his lids. 

They crash into the lawn before Charles knows it. Carried once again on the bear, he returns to the safety of the house. The bear manages this trip with much less grace, though. They burst from the trees with the last shreds of Erik’s control keeping the bear together. The distance, the turmoil, or maybe both wear that control thin. The bear trips over a soggy bit of land and careens into the orderly garden. The panels and short beams that make up its form spill like a toppled block tower, digging into the earth and shredding everything green. Charles rolls and bounces on the grass. He comes to a stop on the stone sunk into the ground at the stairs just outside the library. He sucks in a breath only when the world stops spinning.  
  
The stuck pieces in the earth and mud groan as if trying to join together again. Charles flips onto his stomach and crawls on his hands and knees to the destroyed garden. The bear’s head, what’s left of it, tries valiantly to maintain its shape. Charles wipes dirt from his face and pets at the bear’s prominent brow. Its groaning seams and joints quiet at his touch. Charles stays sitting in the dirt, whispering to it and petting it, until the pieces fall apart. He stays there in the sun, alone, until someone finds him. Charles jumps, everything in him naked and raw, at the touch of a firm hand. Logan stares at him with wide, shaken eyes, and says something to him. Everything is still a roar in Charles’ ears. All he has strength for is to sag against his neighbor and hide his tears against the frantic beat of Logan’s heart.

 


	12. Toys in the Attic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Erik, oh Charles. =C Please leave your furious, tearful comments below. Epilogue to follow.

The echoes of Erik’s little girl screaming follows Charles into his dreams. They’re full of fire and suffering, and the images lingering in real life even when his eyes are open. It's the first night without Erik, and he spends it sleeplessly after the first nightmare. New scratches bandaged and fresh from a shower to rid him of sweat, Charles wanders the house in search of sanctuary. He sets himself up in the library with every light on and a radio playing. At one point, Hank shuffles through and into the kitchen, pausing to stare at his desk. Charles had persuaded himself invisible, still too raw to handle his family, but Hank senses him there anyway. 

He and Raven still don't know what had happened, but they sense his distance. They must notice Erik’s absence. Hank lingers in the doorway connecting the kitchen and library, hands flexing at his sides as if searching for something to say. The tension between the three of them, made worse by Charles’ reclusion, presents on Hank’s face as purple bruises under his eyes and a shadow of beard. Blessedly, Hank leaves without finding any words. Charles remains awake through the night and into dawn, hoping against hope that Erik will see the lights from the yard and come back. 

Charles spends the second night alone in Erik’s room. The blankets of the bed sit bunched up where Erik had left them. They form a sort of burrow where Erik’s body had molded them. Charles avoids the bed and the melancholy he knows awaits him, should he come too close. Nothing here can smell of Erik, not really. The room is still full of closed up, old house smell. And Hank, since the clothes are in fact his. Charles picks up any stray items and sets them back where they belong. Erik had nothing when Charles had coaxed him inside like a wild animal, and he'd left nothing behind. Charles gives in and buries himself in the covers when his heart can take no more. This way, he can pretend that Erik is here and everything's all right. 

Charles haunts his home as a phantom, invisible to his family and numb. Erik does not return. 

He sends Hank and Raven away with brutal pulses of his mind once he has the courage to be visible. Charles also holds the children at arms-length, begging them off with exhaustion and other lies. The only person he allows near is Logan. Logan asks nothing of him, doesn’t pester him with questions or concerns. Logan had simply let him be once he was sure Charles had suffered no injuries upon discovering him that day. Charles makes the journey across the street just for the comfort of another human and sounds to block out phantom screaming. The children’s sad stares and whispers grate on his nerves, and Logan sends them back home. Scott fakes as if the rebuff doesn’t hurt, but he stomps away with his shoulders hunched. Sean and Angel run after him while Ororo takes Kurt and Jean’s hands to lead them away. They glance back and forth between Charles and her, not understanding. Charles lets it all fall apart, just to match the rest of his life. 

He doesn’t search for Erik. He doesn’t return to the charred remains of Erik’s home in the woods. He doesn’t try to fix the garden again. If not for Logan’s gruff insistence that he sit on the porch and mind the house while he’s in the field, Charles would leave everything to rot around him. Out of sheer stubbornness, Charles wills himself out of his head. He’s lost a few days, wallowing in anguish and loss. The heat in Logan’s fields is no less than in his own yard. But somehow, Charles barely feels the sweat at all on his forehead, his upper lip. He doesn’t notice anything until Logan stands before him with arms crossed and a peculiar expression on his face. 

“Yes?” Charles asks.

“You haven’t lived here for long, Chuck,” Logan says simply. “But if you had, you might know about our town’s dirty, little secret.” 

Charles’ brow wrinkles. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Look, bub, I’ve stood around and watched you sit on your ass for half a week, doing nothing except mope.” Logan points a finger at him. “And you knowing the truth might not help your friend, who I don’t give two shits about, but it will help you. It was wrong, what happened to Erik and his little wife. But you carrying a torch for him won’t do nothing.” 

Charles sits up at this. “Wait, you know about what happened? Have you known all along?” 

Logan’s threatening hand falls to his side, and he sighs. 

“Everyone in town probably remembers what happened to them, Chuck. Nothing goes on in little towns like this. But two families murdered in one night? Butchered? You tend to remember something like that. Nothing to be done for a survivor like Erik, though.” 

Anger, the first true emotion he’s felt beyond the black slag of remorse, forces Charles from his chair and into Logan’s face. 

“How dare you!” He yells. “How dare you all know he was there and did nothing!” 

“What were any of us supposed to do, Charles?” Logan returns the anger right back in Charles’ face. They’re chest to chest, almost panting in each other’s mouths. “Go hunting through the woods for a missing man presumed dead? An outsider no one knew anything about? A mutant, at that? He almost killed you when you first met!” 

Charles tries to step forward and push Logan back, but the man holds his ground. 

“You’re a mutant yourself, Logan! Listen to yourself, acting like a coward with these terrified, backwards thinking—” 

“There you go, bub,” Logan says a bit more calmly, although still speaking over Charles. “There you have it. Terrified, backwards thinking country folk. They don’t want anything to do with scandal, media, and above all else change. Mutants are change. And the only people who died in this little drama were mutants. Buried in the ground. They could be forgotten, even with the loose end out there somewhere. No one cares about us out here, Charles. No one.” 

“I care,” Charles spits out with his lower lip shaking. “I will always care.” 

Logan shuts his eyes and exhales through his nose. It gives him calm, or at least enough calm to step away from Charles. He wipes a hand over his face and shoulders past Charles, into the living room. Charles watches over his shoulder, unsure of what’s to come next. Their little fight has blown a wind through the empty place in him where Erik had been. He’s still sore at the edges, painfully alone. The heavy steps of Logan’s boots disappear into the house. Charles follows when he doesn’t come back. 

Logan’s bedroom, dusty and yellow-hued from sheets pinned in front of the windows, is where Charles finds him. Wood paneling on the walls warps from time, and everything smells of cigar smoke. Belts hang limp and crumbling at the ends from the handles of a lopsided dresser. There are no pictures on the walls or the nightstand. Charles lingers in the doorway and watches Logan sitting on his bed, digging through a box. Item he’d searched for in hand, Logan leaves the box on the floor at his feet. To Charles’ left, an old TV sits on a little stand. Logan kneels in front of the setup and slips an ancient VHS tape into a VCR. He waves a hand at Charles, beckoning him inside. 

“Here’s the truth, Charles. Here’s exactly what the town thought about this, how they felt for poor Erik Lehnsherr.” 

Charles stands beside him, rather than sit. Logan fiddles with the VCR’s remote, and the tape plays after a moment of static. It’s a recording of the local news station. The colors are undersaturated on the tape, and the audio is quiet, but it’s watchable. Charles shifts on his feet and lands gently on Logan’s bed after watching a moment. On screen, a reporter covers the story the night it happened, camera framing the smoking remains of Erik’s property behind him. The suspects had escaped town after a string of burglaries of new businesses. They’d fled into the surrounding woods, apparently searching for a getaway vehicle. The reporter is unclear of what’d happened inside the house—Charles remembers the gruesome details—but he goes on to say the two suspects had fled on foot. 

The tape cuts out, only to show another report. The time in the bottom of the screen from the station shows this footage was aired a few hours later. It’s a different house behind the man, now, a different family. The Sampsons, Charles realizes. The other family murdered that night along with Erik’s. All members of that household had been accounted for in the flaming wreckage, leaving five members of the community dead and one missing. The tape cuts again and again, showing later dates in the search for Erik. A portrait of him flashes on the screen every once in awhile—less so as more days drag on. It’s only a week later that the searches stop. 

Coverage of the investigation plays in the dusty bedroom for them. The search for Erik has ended, but the trail of the suspects is still warm. Two men with haggard faces and sunken eyes stare back at Charles through space and time. They’re mug shots, Charles realizes, and his eyes pass over their names without retaining them. The news tracks the carnage and destruction from town to town as the pair avoid the law. Two months after the slaughter, police corner the duo in the basement of their next victim’s house, their last victim's house. The police by that time had learned of their mutant status and had armed themselves against projectile weapons and telepathy. The news station shows images of the murderers once the shoot out ends. For Erik, there was and will never be justice. 

The last bits of the tape Logan shows him are interviews with the townspeople. They all shy away from the cameras and offer empty statements for the victims. Words like “outsiders” and “new to the community” are thrown around. All the people lack sympathy for the suffering, and none of them are interested in finding the still missing Erik. Finally, before the tape cuts out, the news does a brief segment on the year anniversary. A film crew visits the land where Erik’s house had been, and proclaim it a “devastating reminder of a how precious life is.” The TV turns to static at the end of the tape, and neither Charles nor Logan move to change it. 

With a hand over his mouth, Charles whispers, “Would no one show him mercy?” 

“No,” Logan states simply. “It was a raw deal, what was done to him and his. But to the town, the deed was done. No survivors to speak out, no suspects to send to trial. They just wanted it to go away. They best thing the town did was sell that land to some organization that turned it into a state forest. It’s protected. There was no chance anyone would disturb Erik or find him, not that they knew he was there. No one would have found him if it weren’t for you.” 

Charles doesn’t say anything for a while. Logan turns the TV off and slips from the room. Charles listens to him stomp around the house, grumbling to himself. Charles wraps an arm around his stomach. It sickens him to know that no one cared enough to find Erik or help him. He became invisible to the town, except for those few instances where he’d crossed paths with the children. As dangerous as Erik had been before, Charles still clings to the idea that someone could have helped him sooner. It adds to the helplessness that weighs him down. 

It grows stuffy in Logan’s room without an open window or fan, so Charles stands to leave. Logan sits on the porch with a beer in hand, watching his fields. He looks older, as if admitting the truth and revealing everything to Charles adds weight to his soul. Spent himself, Charles drags his feet back to his chair and joins Logan on the porch. Logan offers him a beer, but Charles declines with a soft voice. The silence hangs heavily over them, uncomfortable and sticky. 

“Logan,” Charles begins gently. “Did you know Erik before? What he was like?” 

Logan doesn’t sigh like Charles expects, doesn’t offer a gruff excuse not to speak. Instead, Logan abandons his half-empty beer by the legs of their chairs. He leans forward with his elbows on his thighs and supports his head on top of his fists. Charles glances away and watches a small breeze send leaves and blossoms into as shivering dance. A few straggling, red tomatoes pop out of the surrounding green like Christmas lights at night. The question whether or not Logan sells them around town crosses Charles’ mind.

“I didn’t know him. No one really did. But I remember Annie.” 

Charles flinches at her name, remembering the shock etched on her face in her last moments. 

“She was popular around town. You know the type. Pretty. Respectable. She was the… quiet sort, until Erik showed up.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Logan shrugs. “It seemed like she was just a doll passing through the life chosen for her. And then she met Erik somehow, and everybody talked about the stranger that got Annie laughing in public, dancing during town festivals. It’s suspicious, when someone chooses a guy like him over family and friends.” 

“People makes choices like that all the time,” Charles objects. 

“Not here they don’t. Annie’s life had been planned just like everyone else who lives here. Her folks didn’t take kindly to Erik or his foreign ways.” Logan adjusts in his chair, slinging an arm over the back and slouching a bit. “Most of the town had ostracized her by the time they got married. After that”—Logan shrugged—”it was like she had never existed. They blamed Erik when all the killing happened, especially when his body never turned up. I’m shocked her family buried her and her little girl in the family plot. What was left of them.”

Charles’ upper lip twists in disgust. “How could anyone say such a horrible thing? Erik is blameless! Annie, too! They did nothing to deserve so much cruelty.” 

“Nothing ever **was** said, that’s the point.” Logan flicks a hand around them, gesturing to the town. “Attitude counts for a lot more out here, bub. It don’t take much but an ugly eye and a few doors shut in your face to know you’re not wanted. Or, you know, giving up a search for a man after seven days. Makes you wonder just how hard they looked in the first place, if **you** found him on accident.”

The clouds above them mimic the conversation, growing heavier and bleaker. Charles eyes them and breathes hard through the growing moisture and pressure. Logan looks up as well and scowls. He hops off the porch and dives into the fields without another word. Charles waits until the white of his t-shirt vanishes in the plants. Alone, Charles snatches his aluminum cane from a corner and marches away from the house. It rattles in his hand, as if something’s come loose, but his stewing thoughts drown out the metallic clicking. The wind picks up, too, and blows him back towards his own house. A few, fat drops splash on his head and face, but Charles doesn’t hurry. 

Charles exits the cover of the lane leading to the yard when the sprinkling gains enthusiasm and commits to soaking the ground. Originally heading for the library, Charles stops in the downpour to stare mournfully at the ruins of his garden. The pieces of the metal bear lie wedged into the mud where it had feebly tried to continue walking. The biggest pile of it sits where its torso had come to rest. The only pieces Charles recognizes easily are the ones that had made up its head. If he squints through the rain, he can make out the parts that had formed its heavy brow. Charles wanders over to the destruction without realizing it. The rain is cold and steady on his shoulders. 

Somewhere deep, a leak springs inside Charles and begins to flood him. He’s unaware of it until his nails dig into his palms and his breathing comes out jagged. He stares at the garden, where he and Erik had knelt beside one another only a week ago. They had pruned some dead leaves off the tomato plants, and Erik had crumbled eggshells in his hands, scattering it to deter snails. He had grown quiet and solemn while digging a withered and dried patch of basil from the garden. It had taken too much sunlight and not enough water. It had struck Charles, how deeply Erik felt about something failing in the garden, especially when there was nothing either of them could do at that point. Charles stares and stares at all of it, dead plant mixed with rusting metal, until he can’t see anything but a blur. 

Charles ignores the rain and the mud as he stumbles to his knees. His fingers, white at the knuckles and trembling, paw at a stubborn beam of iron. Pulling and heaving, Charles’ knees sink into the ground as he struggles to move the dormant pieces of the bear out of the way. Fury bubbles out of him like lava along the seabed—hissing and fighting to ignite something in its watery domain. Charles bares his teeth at the metal that refuses to move and throws more of his strength behind it. His legs are soaked with mud along with his hands, making him slip around during the tantrum. 

“Why don’t you just give up?” 

Knees spasming in shock, Charles almost dives face first into the mud. He catches himself on the jagged edge of a beam. The iron bites into his hand, mixing mud and blood together. He doesn’t even feel it, though, staring past the garden and rain at Erik lurking near the tree line. Half a week in the woods hadn’t done him any good, clothes filthy and eyes sunken in like the dead. His facial hair grows back unevenly, and his cheeks tinge pink with sunburn under his eyes. The disarray is almost enough to distract Charles from his simmering anger. Almost. 

“Come again?” He bites out. Charles’ first thought is to ask if he’s all right, where he’s been all this time. The anger wins, though. 

Erik scowls at him. “Every time this”—his hand jerks in the direction of the garden—”gets ruined by something, you come back out here like a fool to try and fix it. Why not just give up?” 

Charles forces himself to his feet using the grace he’d had before the accident. He thinks to throw the mud in his hands at Erik, but he drops it instead. Hands free, he points a finger at Erik and jabs towards him for emphasis. 

“You don’t get to doubt me, Erik Lehnsherr.” Erik takes a step back at his malice. “Every one doubts me. My sister, Hank, even the children, though they try their best to hide it. But not you,” Charles screams at last, breathless. “You don’t get to do that to me.” 

“But why do it if only causes you strife? Just to spite everyone who ‘doubts’ you?” 

Charles flings his hands towards the ground to rid them of filth. Cocking his head back to displace the hair sticking to his forehead, Charles turns to him fully. Erik has stepped closer, abandoning the safety of the trees. He skitters on the edge of civilization and the wild, as if he’d never known Charles and they’d never seen one another. Erik’s standoffishness wounds Charles deeper than he likes, but the anger is there to drive it all away. He’ll sort out his concern for Erik soon, his concern for where Erik had gone and his wellbeing. 

“Because I care, Erik,” Charles thunders across the yard. “It takes nothing for me to care about this garden.” 

Erik’s chin shakes, but he smoothes out his mouth to stop it. “You shouldn’t care. It’s brought you nothing but wasted time and bloody hands.” 

Blood seeps from the new wound in Charles’ palm, as if coming to Erik’s call. It stings terribly, bright on the edge of Charles’ awareness. He’ll tend to it eventually, but he doesn’t dare take his eyes off Erik. Charles worries that if given the chance, Erik will slip back into the woods and never return. Despite his anger at Erik for his hard words and leaving so many days ago, Charles recognizes the want in his heart. He wants nothing more than to sweep Erik back inside and sort out all this hurt and history together. 

Charles sucks in a breath and says over the rumble of thunder, “It’s a pain I’d suffer for something I care about. I won’t give up on this garden as much as I won’t give up on you, Erik.” 

Thin lips twitch and nearly snarl at him, but Erik controls it almost immediately. At his sides, his hands snap into fists and tremble with emotion. Charles watches him, ready to offer a soothing hand if things turn south. Behind him, the metal imbedded in the garden groans and squeaks with Erik’s leaking power. A lump forms in Charles’ throat, and he swallows it down. A strange sense of pride washes through Charles, pride in Erik’s control of his power even while at his wit’s end. He’d done it while half-mad and continues to do it now, filled to the brim with anger. 

“I saw your family, Erik,” Charles admits when the silence stretches thin. “I saw them in your memories. I’m… at a loss for words, I’m afraid. I can’t describe to you the sadness I feel at your loss. Language is… terribly inadequate.” 

Erik tears his gaze away, fighting an outburst. More pieces stuck in the earth whine at the surge of power. Charles takes a risk and steps closer. Erik shrinks in on himself, but he doesn’t retreat. 

“My offer of help still stands. It will always stand. Whatever happens next, I—” 

“Where are the people who did this?” Erik cuts him off. “That’s what I want. I want them.” 

Charles shakes his head. “That’s not possible, I’m afraid. They are dead. And no good would come at the, the vengeful slaughter of two murderers, Erik. It won’t bring Annie back.” 

Erik winces as if the sound of her name hurts him. “Don’t.” 

“It won’t,” Charles persists with another step towards Erik. “Revenge would do nothing for her. Or the Sampsons or any of the other victims.” 

Grey eyes trained on the ground between them lift and zero in on Charles’ face. The fury giving energy to the thundercloud over Erik’s brow breaks for a moment, allowing a single ray of confusion through. 

“What are you talking about? How do… how do you know about all this?” 

Charles freezes in the rain. The dread he had felt days ago, following Erik into the woods to discover the truth, resurfaces. His mind scrambles for a response and throws a half-truth up for him to give. 

“Logan found me after the bear brought me back. He told me things, showed me.” 

“No.” The word rips out of Erik’s throat, only half human. He takes a stumbling step forward. “When we were there, you said… you **said** what we’d found was a house. You were so sure…” Erik’s gaze drops to the ground again. His eyes are wide and searching, as if the final piece of the puzzle is somewhere at their feet. When he glances back up, something delicate has broken in those steely depths. “You knew. You knew where we were. Did… did you know all along?” 

Foolishly, Charles eats up more distance between them. “No, Erik, it’s not like that. I—” 

“You”—Erik shakes his fist by his side, as if he can beat the truth into something rose-tinted—”you knew. Have you always known me? Why did you **lie**?” 

The situation slips through Charles’ fingers like a ribbon caught by the wind. He no sooner lays a hand on Erik’s shoulder when Erik shoves him away and onto his ass, into the mud. A great bolt of lightning connects with the energy of the earth and finds a route through the sky. It blinds Charles on the ground, even with a hand over his eyes to shield them. When he peeks through them, Erik stares at him with that broken thing glinting in his eyes. There’s a subtle shake to his head, as if Erik could drive his assumptions away. 

“I didn’t know anything from the beginning, Erik,” Charles pleads over the boom of thunder breaking the sky. Wind throws rain into their faces. “I only knew that I wanted to help you, that you were alone. I didn’t know about Annie, Erik, **please**.” 

“You’re always lying, Charles!” Erik’s hands fist in his hair. “You lie to your family, to yourself! I should have expected you to lie to me!” 

Charles watches Erik sink to his knees and collapse into himself. Charles digs his feet into the wet earth and drags himself closer to Erik. Erik’s hands fly up to smack him away when Charles touches him, but Charles holds fast. Another arc of lightning finds release, and both men flinch against each other at its proximity. Charles yanks Erik down, bowing his back, until he can hold Erik’s head to his chest. Erik’s hands sink like claws into the back of his wet shirt, almost hurting him. Charles clings all the harder, though, with his cheek pressed to the soaked strands of Erik’s hair. 

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, Erik,” Charles admits above his ear. “Not when you were so happy. When we were happy. I knew it would tear us apart, and I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready for this.” 

Erik grimaces against his chest, and Charles feels the sharp edge of Erik’s teeth through his shirt. Erik squeezes him to the breaking point for a moment before he sags in Charles’ arms. They prop each other up only via their weight meeting in the middle. Erik feels boneless and heavy in his arms. Charles holds him tightly. One hand cups the chilled skin of Erik’s ear while the other anchors itself on Erik’s shoulder. The shaking of Erik’s jaw, his chin, vibrates through Charles’ hand. He blesses the rain, so that he can’t feel Erik’s tears on his shirt. 

“They’re gone, Charles. It’s like losing them all over again,” Erik chokes out in the hollow of his chest. “I wish you hadn’t found me.” 

Charles bites his lower lip savagely between his teeth. His shoulders bunch up, and his throat burns. He can breathe again after a moment, but it’s a ragged breath that doesn’t satisfy.

“I don’t regret finding you, Erik. I’ll never regret welcoming you here.” 

“Don’t,” Erik begs. “Don’t hurt me like this. Not you, too.” 

Charles swallows the next thing he’d thought to say, something he’s felt since sitting with Erik on the porch and telling the man about his life, asking Erik what he could remember. Those words would do him no good, now, spoken too late. Erik shrugs and struggles in his arms, and Charles releases him. Something hollow aches in Charles when Erik glances at him but just as quickly looks away. Erik’s legs shake as he stands, but he helps Charles up, too. The rain continues to drench them, but the lightning and thunder have moved on. They chase each other to the east, where the sky flickers behind Erik’s head. Charles still has a grip on Erik’s hands, where Erik had held him while they stood. 

“Please,” Charles whispers. “Let’s go inside out of the rain and… talk. I’ll tell you everything, everything that I kept from you. Please.” 

Erik’s gaze drifts over his shoulder to the house. He stares at it for a long stretch of time. For the first time since this all began, Charles struggles to read Erik. Where once there was only a river between them, there is now an ocean and a river. Charles can hardly touch the fringes of Erik’s mind without floundering in a stormy sea. It’s all the warning Charles needs before pulling back. Erik blinks, as if he’d felt the touch of Charles’ power, and gives Charles his full attention. The purple bags under Erik’s eyes have returned. He’s never looked so tired to Charles.

“I don’t… I don’t think I can,” Erik croaks. “I thought about what happened and what I want for my future and… I think if I go with you, I might never leave. I’ll never get the chance to… to be me again.” 

Charles shakes his head, but Erik speaks over him. 

“I’ll never be me again. I can’t. But I can’t be… this, either.” Erik jerks his head, trying to indicate himself. “This isn’t real.” 

“Some of it is real,” Charles bursts out. “How we feel about each other is real. What we’ve felt is real.” 

“Don’t.” There’s less water in Erik’s voice this time. More earth. “Don’t lie.” 

“You care about me!” Charles squeezes Erik’s hands in his. “No matter the horrible, awful, unforgivable things that have happened to you… You care about me. And I, you. And that’s worth something.” 

Glassy-eyed, but firm, Erik gives Charles a single shake of the head. “I can’t. Not right now.” 

Chin shaking, Charles bites his lip again and looks down at their hands. “I’d said once that… if you left, it would be your choice. I can’t stop you.” Charles lifts his head, unashamed of the tears on his face. “But I don’t want you to leave.” 

Erik frowns at him, and some of that wild animal Charles is so used to floats up from the depths of Erik. It takes center stage for a moment as Erik shuffles closer. Charles closes his eyes, adjusts his head for what he knows is about to come. Erik bumps their foreheads, the sides of their noses together. Charles grits his teeth and shudders through a breath. His mind scrambles for something to say, anything that could make Erik stay here. But as Erik stoops down and rubs their cheeks together like he’s done so many times before, Charles cracks open an eye and stares at the dark clouds overhead. He knows Erik will vanish and slip away like those clouds. He can no better tether Erik to him than he can capture the sky. It’s a bitter truth in his mouth. 

“Where will you go?” Charles asks with Erik’s cheek still pressed against his. 

“Israel, I think. I think my parents are buried there. It’s… a start.” 

Foolishly, ever foolishly, Charles squeezes Erik’s hands and dares to ask, “Will you ever come back?” 

Erik’s breath rushes in his ear, unsteady and choked for a moment. “I… I don’t know.” 

Fresh tears, searing hot against the coolness of Charles’ face, mix with the rain. 

Charles murmurs, “If it means anything, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you… that I knew about Annie. I shouldn’t have kept that from you. And I’m happy that I found you. I’ll always be happy about that.” 

“Close your eyes,” Erik says. 

Charles frowns but does as Erik asks. Erik’s warmth vanishes along his face as he steps back. Charles holds fast to the long fingers trapped in his. He’ll hold on until the last moment, when Erik takes the invisible hand of fate and controls it for perhaps the first time in years. Charles’ breath ramps up until his chest shudders with it. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop any noises from leaking out. Erik shifts in front of him, almost pulling away. Two warm pieces of metal slide between their fingers. Charles flinches against them, one heavier than the other. In his moment of weakness, air displaces and Erik’s fingers slip out of his grasp. Charles stumbles forward, as if he could stop Erik, but he finds nothing. He doesn’t open his eyes until the flow of wind from Erik’s departure calms. Empty and aching inside, Charles peels his tired eyes open and looks at the metal clutched tightly in his hand.

The necklace he’d dug up, once reclaimed by Erik, lies in his hand along with a golden ring. Inside the band, Charles reads an inscription with his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyes flooding once more. 

_Erik, beloved_

 


	13. The Return of Frankenstein's Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayo! MAN wasn't that a journey? So much suffering. Thanks for joining me, and please don't forget to detail the EXACT saltiness and quantity of your tears in the comment section below. 
> 
> You don't know how much I'd love to write an alternate ending to this, where Erik walks up the lane and finds Charles and Logan as an actual couple. Probably walking up on them in mid-kiss. So he just leaves and never comes back, because clearly Charles doesn't need him *hums Adele's "Hello"* That was never the true ending of this fic, and in fact, Charles' line about loving Erik and Erik breaking his heart was one of THE scenes that made me write this fucking story. That and the scary chapter four where Erik practically murders him in the nasty bunker. Fun fact: I had originally intended Erik to be much more savage and stalker-y of Charles, and had even planned to have him in a muzzle. But shit didn't work out that way lol. But this epilogue IS the ending, and all unanswered questions are just that: unanswered. Not that *I* won't answer them lol. If you'd ever like to talk X-men or Cherik with me, feel free to follow me on tumblr. Bye~

The twinkling of children laughing and wind chimes dancing in the wind fills the void of the lane leading up to Charles’ house. Erik stands in the lane, not quite yet cresting the hill, to take in the sounds of life. He'd forgotten the humidity and sweat of this place, it contrasting so differently from the dry heat of Israel. Even the clouds are different, the few Erik can see through the canopy. Not everything is so jarring. The familiar hum of metal buzzes at his fingertips when he reaches for it. The pieces of the bear aren’t where he’d left them. Erik notes sourly that Logan is present, too, loitering somewhere near the kitchen. More importantly, though, Charles is still here. Erik touches the pins in his bones gently enough for Charles not to notice. It’s not something he could have done two years ago. Standing here, ready to look at Charles again, it not something he could have done two years ago. 

Sighing to dispel his nervous stomach, Erik adjusts the brim of his hat and climbs the squat hill up to the yard. He remembers the exact outline Charles’ garden had cut out of the tall grass. Now, all matter of life has taken over. Stubborn citrus trees shade the windows of the kitchen, where once sunlight poured in and raised the room’s temperature. The vegetables in Charles’ garden have expanded. Erik spies all sorts of things from a neat row of cabbages to a cluster of corn stalks. There’s an order to the madness in the yard, but Erik isn’t sure what it is. He almost doesn’t catch the hum of dead, old iron hidden amongst all this life.

Someone, Erik isn’t sure who, had taken the beams that had made up the bear and cast them about the property. They stand on their ends, jutting into the sky like guardians of a sacred place. Flowering vines grow over the tallest beams. Alien, purple flowers bloom along the vines. Two beams as tall as Erik’s hips frame the lane’s entrance into the yard, and Erik leans towards a flower to sniff it. It isn't fragrant, or the smell isn't obvious to him, but it's pretty all the same. Occupied with ogling Charles’ handiwork, Erik's keen gaze skips right over a child staring at him through a break in the green chaos. 

Her name eludes him, but her face rises from the memories he keeps locked behind a door. They're the wild, corrupted memories of his time spent as a prisoner of his own mind in these woods. She'd seen him all those years ago, before Charles had come. She's grown up a bit, in height and control of her power. He barely feels her lift his name from his head. She turns like a whip once she has it, though, and takes off for the house. Sighing at his blown cover, Erik marches a path through the garden and follows her trail. 

Logan stands on the porch with a glass of water in hand. He watches the other children running wild through the garden. The young redhead who had caught him races up to his side and tugs at his shirt. Logan finds him over the foliage and frowns at him. Erik stops his advance at that frown, but he gives no sign of backing down. His heart races in his chest and his stomach flops around just under it, but he won't leave without seeing Charles. Or at least he won't leave until Charles denies him. 

Speaking of the telepath, Charles appears on the porch as if answering Erik’s silent call. There's a cordless phone pinned between his head and shoulder and a baby bouncing in one arm. He offers Logan a smile and a roll of his eyes as he chatters to the person on the line. Erik’s heart stops at the sight of the baby, at the soft glance between Charles and Logan. An iron piece stuck in the earth beside him lurches towards the ground, but Erik catches it. During his crisis, Logan snatches the phone away from Charles and turns his head to where Erik is standing. Erik looks up at the moment Charles’ mouth hangs open on an outraged cry at Logan. 

They do a tremendous job of staring at each other and not much else. Some of the children have stopped their games and running to watch the drama play out. They eye him wearily before turning their attentions to the adults present. Logan waves a hand at them, and they disperse as a unit towards the road. Erik doesn't watch them go, assuming they're headed for Logan’s property. The redhead girl is the last the leave, and Erik loses track of her immediately. He might feel her walk by, but she doesn't allow him to see her. He wouldn't pay her much attention anyway with all his focus stuck on Charles. 

It strikes Erik, how little Charles has changed. His hair still hangs down to the lobes of his ears, although it frames his face better than it had. Maybe he's had it trimmed recently, Erik thinks. His face had drained of color upon seeing Erik, but now it flushes a pretty pink. Or possibly a furious pink, Erik isn't sure. Charles’ slacks and button up shirts are the same, his freckles are the same, and the spark in his eye he’d get when looking at Erik is the same. It gives Erik hope, but Charles speaking to him instead of staring at him, slack jawed, would give him more. 

Logan glances between them and rolls his eyes skyward. With a hand on Charles’ shoulder, the one not cradling a baby, Logan gently shakes him. 

“Chuck. Hey, Chuck… Charles!” 

“Oh,” he gasps and holds the baby tighter to him. He thinks better of that, though, when the poor thing squawks at him. 

Charles blinks and jostles the baby in his arms, trying to quiet it. He lacks focus to make a solid attempt, though, because he can’t stop staring at Erik. Erik almost glances down at his suit, in case there’s mud or something on him. But when Logan scoffs at them, Erik realizes it’s just **him** Charles is staring at. Erik swallows the lump in his throat and shoves back the pleased cheering that erupts in his head. Charles staring at him isn’t necessarily a good thing, he tells himself. Charles might just be biding his time, waiting for the right moment to seize control of Erik’s bodily functions and march him back the way he’d come. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Logan asks. 

Erik’s confidence shrivels up. A noise that thought it could be coherent words spews out of his mouth. None of the adults speak after that embarrassing display. The baby in Charles’ arms fills in for them with its own chorus of babbling and laughing. Erik wills his cheeks to cool off while simultaneously promising to not fly away right now and leave his rented car behind. He’d have to return for it eventually, but the thought of abandoning it and facing the consequences for that are almost tempting. Charles adjusts the baby in his arms and bites his lower lip, waiting.

“I just,” Erik tries again. He’s gained an accent along the way, somehow. English sounds clumsy in his mouth. “I just came to talk. And I—” 

“And what if we have nothing to say to you?” Logan fires back. 

Erik’s brain catches on the “we” in that statement. All thought processes stall, and a mental klaxon screams in panic. Caught up in the chaos, he doesn’t see Charles frown at Logan and shake his head. Charles nudges Logan with his shoulder and gestures for him to take the baby. Logan does so with a grunt. They murmur something to each other, but Erik doesn’t hear it over the apocalypse happening in his brain. He’d prepared so many things to say to Charles, but a few soft glances between those two had undone it all. Charles and Logan shuffle about on the porch, and the movement brings Erik’s out of his mental crisis. 

Grunting with another eye roll, Logan cradles the squirming baby in his arms and makes faces at it. Charles smiles at the display fondly. Erik’s stomach performs a perfect swan dive off the top floor of a skyscraper, but he somehow manages not to show it. Logan steps off the porch while shushing the baby, calming it and returning some semblance of order to its world. He glares at Erik before cocking his head back to Charles. They stare at one another, and it takes until Logan walks away for Erik to realize they’d spoken telepathically. He doesn’t flinch as Logan stalks by him, rubbing shoulders as he passes. He takes it as the warning it is, though, and turns his attention back to Charles. 

 _Be gentle_ , the touch had warned. 

The sight of Charles before him in the flesh is like the taste of water to a man trapped in the desert. He shuffles in tight movements on the porch, shifting his weight around. Baby food stains the shoulder of his shirt, as if the baby had spit up on him recently. Charles’ sleeves are rolled to his elbows in the summer heat and dirt clings to the fine hairs there. Charles crosses his arms over his chest, but thinks better of it and drops them. He watches Erik for barely a breath before crossing them again. 

“I didn't hear you come up,” Charles comments. “You always had a knack for sneaking up on me.” 

Erik’s hands twitch at his sides, wanting nothing more than to stand in front of Charles and brush dirt from his skin. The thought strikes him hard and fast through his heart. Erik hopes Charles can't hear the melancholy singing between his ears. He thought he'd prepared for this moment of seeing Charles again, but it's nothing like he'd imagined. The lingering presence of children and Logan throws a wrench into all of Erik’s fantasies. Charles sighs, exasperated, and lowers himself to sit on the porch. 

“You're lucky I've already fed Reggy. He gets fussy and bitey when hungry.” 

Erik squints at him while stalking closer. “Reggy?” 

Charles nods. “The baby I handed off to Logan. Darling little thing, but a hellion in foul moods. He’ll be two soon.” 

Erik doesn't even have to do the math. “Born around the time I left, I see. I'm… Glad to see you're happy.” 

Charles stares at him after that comment with his head cocked. The sweat on Erik’s upper lip itches something awful, but he refuses to wipe it away. He waits to feel the ghost of Charles’ power over his mind, to catch the telepath snooping on his thoughts. The touch never comes, or maybe Charles has honed his skill since Erik’s absence. Erik’s gaze wanders without focus, but soon catches on something wrapped around one of Charles’ fingers. It hums to him. A little coaxing from the metal reveals gold, gold that has sung to him before. Erik blinks, bewildered at Charles and the confusing information clashing in his head. Charles is wearing _his_ wedding band, and yet he and Logan must surely… 

A fond, teasing smile bends Charles’ lips at the ends as Erik’s mind strangles itself with circular thoughts. 

“Reginald is Raven and Hank’s son. Logan helps when all the children are here.” 

Erik’s heart nearly gives out. He grunts a bit from the shock and let's his chest cave in a bit. It gets his eyes off Charles’ chuckling form and allows them both a moment to collect themselves. Charles’ soft smile is still on his face when Erik glances at him again. 

“Oh god, Erik, what would I do with a baby?” He tosses his head to knock his hair off his forehead. “I'd be a terrible parent.” 

Erik’s disagreement rushes up in his mouth and demands the chance to defend Charles from himself. Erik chokes it back by clearing his throat. He's almost to the porch now, having shuffled closer like a wild animal during their conversation. Charles has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Something shifts in Charles’ eyes, sucking the happiness out of them. In his lap, Charles hands twitch much like Erik’s had only a moment before. Charles even goes so far as to lift one towards Erik, but he stops before touching him. Instead, he sweeps his hand to the empty space beside him. 

“Would you like to have a seat?” 

Erik eyes the offered seat as it calls to him. He remembers filling the space beside Charles without shame or hesitation. But unsaid things and old wounds stop him, now. 

“Mmm… May I?” 

Charles must not expect him to ask for permission. He sits up straighter, leaning away to look Erik up and down. It's subtle, but the motion carves a gouge in Erik’s heart. He imagines Charles comparing him to the Erik he had known, maybe superimposing their images together to see how different he is now. Erik knows that before he would have just sat pressed against Charles without an offer, and Charles would have welcomed him. But they're different people now, and the Erik he is now is a stranger to Charles. 

“Yes,” Charles says quietly. The cry of bugs and birds almost drowns him out. A radio plays something old and lonely from somewhere inside the dark house. “You may.” 

Erik nods, nervousness tossing his stomach like a boat in a stormy sea. He removes his hat and twists his heel in the dirt to land beside Charles. The wood below him is slightly cool from the shade cast by the overhanging roof. The heaviness of the humidity is just as awful as he'd remembered. It's not late enough in the season to call this weather soupy, but Erik wouldn't mind a cold shower after this. 

One of the things he'd wanted to talk about chooses this quiet moment to tap Erik on the shoulder and request acknowledgment. Twisting his hands in his lap, Erik rolls his shoulders and prepares for the worst. 

“I um… I wrote to you, while I was away. Did you get any of my letters?” 

Charles is stone still beside him, hardly breathing after Erik’s question. His eyes don't focus on any point in particular, but he won't look at Erik either. Erik picks at a loose thread in his trousers, waiting. His mind swarms with panic buzzing and whizzing past. His far leg, the one not almost touching Charles, takes to jiggling up and down. Erik digs his fingers into his knee to stop it, but the nervous energy just finds an outlet in his foot that takes up the call for movement. 

Sighing, Charles pushes himself up to stand. “I'll be right back.” 

Erik twists his head to watch Charles go. He moves smoothly without a cane in sight. That piece of Charles had slipped his mind, and he hadn't noticed the cane’s absence until now. Charles slips into the darkness of the library and then the hallway beyond, and Erik loses sight of him. Foot still bouncing, Erik twists back around with an angry sigh. Angry at himself, never Charles. At least, not angry now. Flying away from here two years ago after handing the wedding band his powers had summoned from the wreckage, yes he’d been furious. Furious at the hopelessness of being hurt by the one he’d come to love so deeply, furious at himself for his own cowardice. Exhaling through the tight ‘o’ his lips make, Erik straightens his back and shuts his eyes from the harsh sunlight. 

He doesn’t even remember what he’d written for half of those letters. He’d never found the courage to tell Charles how he’d felt, could only gallop around it like a nervous colt. He'd discovered an affinity for art while away, and he distantly recalls sketching random things in the margins of those letters that had resisted his pen. He'd drawn Charles from memory more times than he can count, but he'd held on to those or set them ablaze so no one would see. With a tick of his lips, Erik recalls how beautiful Charles comes out in charcoal… 

The pins in Charles’ shins sing to him as Charles wanders back to him, and Erik uncoils his fists from his suit pants, releasing tension and his memories. 

Charles plops back to the porch. Between them he nestles a shoebox that’s coming apart at the corners. Inside, Erik’s letters sit tucked and stuffed next to each other. Their tops are neatly sliced open, probably with an actual letter opener that _of course_ Charles would own. Erik lifts a hand towards them, but he stops at the last second. He can’t bring himself to touch Charles or these things that belong to him. Swallowing his melancholy, Erik combs through the letters with his eyes instead. There’s one, smashed against the far side of the box, with its envelope ripped and torn raggedly. When Erik glances up to Charles, he finds Charles staring at that letter, too. Charles huffs out his own sigh and digs his fingers between discolored envelopes to dig that one out. Erik doesn’t recognize it, and he waits for Charles to elaborate. 

“This was the first one,” Charles explains while caressing the ripped envelop with his fingers. “Hank had brought it home from the university, actually. I guess you didn’t know the address here.” 

Swallowing back a few instinctual replies, all inadequate and emotional, Erik nods after sometime. “I looked it up after the first one, thinking maybe that one had… lost its way. I remembered the engineering department’s address and hoped somehow the letter would make it to Hank.” 

Charles smiles at that and traces Erik’s handwriting on the front of the envelope. 

“Did you know Hank took Raven’s last name when they married? You made this out to Hank Xavier…” 

Erik blushes and stares down at his hands in his lap. “I admit that I did not.” 

Charles shifts beside him on the porch and tucks the first letter back amongst its kin. His fingertips linger on their neat, open edges. Erik still can’t recognize any from the colors of their envelopes, but to know that Charles had received a vast majority of them and had opened them all… It sets something loose and wild in Erik’s heart. It beats a frantic rhythm in his chest, and he takes care to keep his breaths even. Charles probably knows he’s panicking and constantly considering running back to his rental and speeding off. Charles probably doesn’t even need his telepathy to know. 

“How are you?” Charles whispers. To Erik, it startles him like a shout in a library. 

“F-fine. Good, um… Did a lot of traveling.” 

A chuckle rises out of Charles’ throat. “I saw from all the postmarks on the letters. Gallivanting around the world, were you?” 

Erik nods while watching his fingers twist together. “It wasn’t all soul searching, I’ll admit. Um… And you? How are you?” 

Charles drums his fingers along the edges of the letters. “Better. I took up teaching again last semester. It's summer break right now, but I'm going back for fall. Hank and Raven are thrilled, despite them having to pay for a babysitter.” He laughs softly at that, and Erik nods. “I missed it, during this secluded interim of mine…” 

Erik thinks to fill the air between them with idle chitchat, to ask Charles more about his rekindled career. But instead, he blurts out, “I like what you’ve done with the garden…” 

Charles twists his head and shoots an amused glance at him. The expression passes, despite Erik wanting to savor it forever, and Charles shrugs. “I had nothing but time. And I wanted to do something with the pieces of your friend.” 

Twisting his fingers in his lap again, Erik lets his gaze touch the rusting pieces of iron standing up on their ends. He can make sense of which pieces made up the bear’s body parts by touching them a bit with his power. Charles has thrown all the larger pieces to the perimeter of the yard, while the flat panels that had covered its back have been folded or twisted in an artsy sort of way. Erik frowns while searching for the face bits. They call to him from the original, small plot Charles had started years ago. The pieces are undisturbed from where they’d fallen, Erik realizes. He bets that if he were to rise and look, he’d probably find them buried under a little mound. He’s frozen to the spot, though, at how Charles has used the pieces of his… Friend? Creature? Erik frowns at his lap when he thinks about it. 

“It’s something I never understood, but just accepted… How you cobbled it together. **Why** , for that matter.” 

Erik shakes himself and glances over the pieces again. “I’m, I’m not sure, either. As time has passed, my years in the woods have become even foggier than they were. I’ve left those memories alone, hoping maybe they’d go away. Maybe… Maybe I was lonely? I don’t know. It certainly made scouting the area easier, being able to send my senses out wherever I wanted.” Erik shrugs and squeezes his hands together in his lap. “I’m sorry that I don’t have an answer for you. One tends to do nonsensical things in solitude.” 

Charles shifts beside him, neither moving away nor closer, and hums in reply. Erik bites his tongue in his mouth as he goes over what he’s just said. Sweat clings to the collar of his shirt as he fidgets. His thoughts and mouth are so clumsy around Charles, now. He grasps, frustrated, at the ease he used to have around this man, and yet he cannot find it. Eyeing Charles without turning towards him, Erik tries to pick apart his emotions on his face. There’s not much there, though. Charles simply stares out at the garden with sweat shining on his forehead and upper lip. He sighs and goes to wipe it away, and Erik scrambles to stop looking at him. The distance between them stabs at Erik’s heart. He searches for something else to say, something that will get Charles to open up to him again. 

They both go to speak at the same time after that, but each man reels his words back in and sits in silence. Charles hunches his shoulders, and when Erik gazes down at his hands, the nails of his dirty-speckled fingers dig harshly into the porch. A piece of the Erik he had been after Charles had found him rises, unbidden, and Erik lifts a hand to touch him. Charles moves away before their skin meets, but Erik feels the brief spark he’s been craving since he’d left. The longer he’s stayed away, the more Charles’ soul and mere **existence** has called to him, even halfway around the planet. Fed up with his trepidation and hesitation, Erik slaps his palms into the porch and launches himself back to his feet. Charles watches him with years hanging on his face and a weariness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Erik has ruined him, a bit, but Erik ignores that while courage possesses him. 

Standing in front of Charles, with the sun calling up more sweat on his face and neck, Erik admits, “I missed you.” 

Charles’ mouth opens a few times, and Erik waits for him to say something. Anything. A breeze rolls around the house and carries the flop of hair in front of Charles’ eyes off his face. It’s a bit longer than when Erik had last seen him, but he’s still breathtaking, enchanting. 

“Erik…” 

“I missed you,” Erik repeats again. “And at first, when I left… I knew what I wanted. I wanted to get away from all this.” Erik waves his hand around them. “I wanted to pick up the loose ends, what few there were left. But…” Erik drops his hand back to his side with an exhausted sigh. “But I missed you. All the time.” 

Charles stares at him with wide eyes, not saying anything, not moving. 

“I found some family living in Israel. Uncles and cousins and such. They—”Erik rubs the back of his sun-flushed neck”—wanted me to stay there with them. And I thought about it. But I didn’t know them anymore. I mean, I did but in-in a **fractured** kind of way. I learned to draw and paint, and even to dance, but it was never enough.” 

Charles frowns at him, just a tick of his lips at the ends. Erik’s hands fly to his own hair, and he yanks on the short ends. Charles startles on the porch and reaches for him, but Erik shakes his head in his hands. 

“The only thing I knew anymore was you, and you were here, but **I** couldn’t stand to be here. Not after everything that happened.” His hair stands up at odd angles when he releases it. He stares at Charles with slumped shoulders and sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “It took this long for me to come back. And I don’t know… I don’t know what you want anymore.” Erik takes a step forward, and something unwinds in him when Charles’ face falls and he doesn’t pull away. “I just… wanted to see you again.” 

Erik lifts his hand to Charles’ chin, to touch the soft dimple in the middle of it, but Charles catches him around the wrist. He freezes, as if Charles has taken control of his mind. 

“I loved you, Erik.” Charles murmurs with his hand tight around Erik’s wrist. “I loved you so… So very much. But you broke my heart.” Charles glances down, and Erik’s heart clenches at the moisture sparkling in those blue eyes. Charles says to the ground, “And I think in a way, I broke yours, too.” He lifts his head again, not quite crying. Erik might be, but he can’t focus on anything except Charles. “I’m sorry, my friend. For everything we did to each other. I don't regret, **can't** regret. But I am sorry.” 

Erik grimaces, fighting his pain, and pushes his hand forward to catch Charles’ blushing cheek. Charles allows it and turns his face into Erik’s large palm. They’ve done this before, plenty of times. But to Erik, it feels fresh and new like the first sprouts popping up after planting. Charles’ fingers clutch at the fabric of his sleeve, anchoring Erik where he stands. Another breeze barrels over them, and Erik shivers at the tear tracks cooling slightly on his face. He sniffs hard and rips his eyes away from Charles. The garden lives and breathes around them, unaware of their shared heartache. Erik lets loose a shaky breath before looking at Charles again. He finds Charles’ electric eyes watching him, waiting. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Erik whispers. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I… never wanted to hurt you. I feel as though I've… ruined everything between us.” 

Charles’ smile is watery and shaky against his hand, but it’s a smile all the same. How Erik has **ached** to see that smile again. Charles shakes his head after a moment and turns his face more towards Erik’s palm. Erik’s skin tingles where Charles’ lips touch him. It's not a kiss, but it brings up every instance he's held someone since leaving. It brings up how empty it all was, and how he'd felt hollow until now. To admit it to Charles would pick at the strings holding him together and unravel him. His seams are already rough with how difficult it is just to talk to Charles. But at least Charles still smiles at him. 

Charles sighs into his palm one last time before he twists his fingers in Erik’s and pulls away. Erik shuffles closer to keep his hand in Charles’. It's a bit too hot outside to be this close, but Erik suffers it out of starvation. 

“I refuse to believe you've spent all that time just dancing around the world and reconnecting with relatives,” Charles says with a gentle laugh at the end. He squeezes Erik’s hand in his and asks, “Would you like to tell me the rest over lunch? Or lunch and dinner?” 

In the distance, the excited whooping and cries of the children echo through the valley. Their sounds gallop over the hill in the lane and flood Charles’ garden. There’s life here. Charles brought life here, despite so much death and suffering that has happened. The life calls to Erik and has brought him back so that maybe he can live for true this time. Erik’s thumb, with the scar at the base of it, traces over dirt that’s dried on Charles’ hand. His old wedding ring is almost a brand against their skin. Erik swallows hard, and his gaze dances over Charles’ face. There are purple bruises under Charles’ eyes and twin lines curling gently from their inside corners. How many sleepless nights must Charles have endured, worrying about him? Mourning everything they’d had? Erik grows roots out from his feet and takes to the nutrients Charles offers in his words. 

“I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna make it official? [Follow this](http://missgillette.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "The Neglected Garden"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8190247) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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